Gone Wylde 05: The Vagaries of Life
by Concolor44
Summary: Wendy and friends try to deal with the aftermath of recent tragedies, but her nightmares threaten her sanity even as her businesses begin growing. Then Winter arrives and all bets are off.  Rated for adult situations.
1. Vignette:  Karl and Sandy

**Gone Wylde - Book 5: **

**The Vagaries of Life**

by Clint McInnes

##

**_Vignette 01 - Karl and Sandee_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**We allow our ignorance to prevail upon us and make us think  
****we can survive alone, alone in patches, alone in groups,  
****alone in races, even alone in genders.**

_**-Maya Angelou **_

##

_** Saturday 22 October 2016 – 4:40pm **_

Sandee wouldn't ordinarily have dropped by the church this time of day on a Saturday, but it was on her way to Belle's place, and no one had had a chance yet to drop off the bulletins for the service in the morning. So she volunteered to do it while Alan and Juliette whipped up a big pot of chili for supper.

She parked right by the front door, surprised to see Karl's big 'dually' a couple of spaces over. When she got out of her car, she caught the faint strains of a guitar coming from inside. _Maybe the praise team is practicing? But that doesn't sound like any chorus I know, though. And there aren't any other cars._ She walked over and opened the front door as quietly as she could. The deeply melancholy chords came much more clearly to her now. _Wow. That doesn't sound like anything I've __ever__ heard him play._

She set the bulletins down on the little table by the front doors, then glided slowly across the vestibule and leaned against the doorframe to the sanctuary. Karl sat on the edge of the podium, strumming and picking the guitar in an odd melding of classical and bluegrass styles. The sound was mournful and full of longing, minor and suspended chords following one another in a sad procession. She listened for several minutes in silence, respecting his art, until he faded off into a series of disharmonies that ended on an unresolved B-suspended-seventh.

There was silence for the space of four seconds and then, "Hi, Sandee. Something I can do for you?"

She walked out into the main room and down the narrow aisle between the pews. "I don't know. Would you like to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever it is that has you so down." She stopped at the front pew and rested against it.

"What makes you think …"

She held out a paw to stop him. "Two things. Three really, if you count that soulful, hang-dog look on your face. First, you rarely come over here by yourself. I don't actually remember a single time since you helped with the re-shingling, and that's been better than two years. I know you never need the practice." She cut him off as he started to protest. "Oh, don't think I haven't noticed! I'm not the only one. You know all the tunes anybody ever suggests, and you never miss a chord."

"And that means what?"

"Nothing by itself." She held up two fingers. "In the second place, I've never heard you play like that before."

"Nobody has heard it before. It's a tune I just made up."

"That's not my point. Look, Karl, you can play the guitar. And the banjo, and the fiddle, and the piano, and I don't know what all. But everything I've ever heard you play was … well, _technically_ good. But that's all. You don't miss a note. You make a good accompanist. But your music doesn't have any fire."

"Say what?"

"Emotion. You never … um, put any of _yourself_ into your playing. Except tonight. That's one of the most heavy-hearted things I ever heard. So I figure something's up."

Karl met her gaze, but didn't say anything.

She sighed. "Look, Karl. It's no big deal, okay? If you don't think it's any of my business, I'm fine with that. But I'm your friend and I can't help but be concerned and I'm here to listen if you need to vent or whatever."

He took a couple of deep breaths himself, and laid the guitar on the podium. "Have you ever found yourself in a completely untenable situation?"

"Every time I try to fix a dinner that will satisfy five picky eaters."

That earned her a dry chuckle.

"But that's probably not what you mean, is it?"

He shook his head. "Sandee, you've always had more than your fair share of insight."

"Alan accuses me of that, too."

"I've got what you might call a … conflict of interest."

"How so?"

"My heart and my faith aren't getting along."

"Ohhhhhhh. Well, I'm not much of a theologian, but …"

"Uh-huh. I know better."

" … but I'll help if I can. Something happen that you don't understand?"

"Well … no. In a word." He thought for a couple of seconds. "Do you …" He squirmed a little, searching for the phrasing. "Did you ever meet Wendy Wylde?"

"Oh, yes! Charming girl! I've spoken with her a few times in town, and when a group of us went out to the old Vulpin place to help her get it cleaned up." She caught his drift. "You've got a thing for Miss Wylde, I take it?"

"Mm-hmm. More than just a 'thing'. Much more. But she's a … _dedicated_ non-Christian. It wouldn't be a good match."

"You've spoken with her about this? Or is some of what you're telling me just guesswork?"

"Yes. We've talked. She's quite adamant. But she doesn't know how I feel. Not really. I mean, she knows I like her. Knows I'm attracted to her, but …"

Sandee cocked her head a little. "But what?"

" … But it's more than that. Sandee, I can't get her out of my head! I think about her, about being with her, talking with her, constantly. And right now, as we speak, she's on her way to a party. She's going as the guest of Conner von Trapp."

"von Trapp?" Her brows knitted briefly in thought. "Oh, he's the one who rescued Martin!"

"Bingo."

"Ah. Oh. Hmm. Am, uh … am I to assume that he and Miss Wylde are more than just friends?"

"Right again."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"So am I."

"So you're having trouble letting go?"

"I'm having trouble deciding whether I even _should_ let go."

"Ouch."

"Exactly. There are subjects over which we are at complete loggerheads. She's unwilling to discuss religion on any level. Says if God wants to say anything to her, He knows where to find her."

"Oo. She sounds serious about it."

"But in practically every other way she's perfect! She's smart, funny, outgoing, creative, helpful …"

"Uh-huh. And having met her, I can tell she wouldn't exactly crack mirrors."

"Well … yeah, there's that, too."

"I guess you've prayed about it, then?"

"Uh … yeah. Some."

She chuckled at him. " 'Some'? I'd think it would be a matter of daily intercession." She thought of something, raised her brows, and tapped a finger on the back of the pew she was leaning on. "Unless you already got an answer that you didn't like."

He didn't say anything.

"I see." She sighed again, nodded, and turned to go. "Karl, you're just as much a free moral agent as any of us, even if you do have a shady past." She smiled a little at his startled look. "No, Alan didn't say anything. But I've got ears and eyes, and I can put two and two together, and we've spent enough time around each other for you to let several things slip."

"Oh. Um …"

"I put the bulletins in the vestibule." She gave him a penetrating look. "It says the praise team is going to be doing All Good Gifts as a special. Does that mean _you'll_ be here in the morning?"

" … It does."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Is there anything you'd like me to pass on to Alan?" Her tone indicated that she thought there should be.

"Just have him pray for me."

"He does that anyway, you know."

"I know." He shrugged. "Tell him what I told you."

"Will do. God bless, Karl."

"God bless you, too, Sandee. And thanks."

. . .

. . .

. . .


	2. Vignette:  Lee and Debbye

**_Vignette - Lee and Debbye_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**There is no such thing in anyone's life as an unimportant day.**

_**-Alexander Woollcott**_

_##_

_** Saturday 22 October, 2016 - 11:30pm ** _

The sergeant padded quietly down the hallway. An airborne veteran, he'd been seconded to this detail as a "rest", though it hadn't turned out that way. He understood just what Lee Evans had done and the warrior in him admired a civilian, anyone really, who could accomplish that. Consequently, he really hated to bother the Evanses, but his big boss had been insistent. Sure, he could have sent a corporal in his stead, but he also respected Lee enough to deliver the message in person.

Stopping in front of the door of the room assigned to Lee and Debbye, he knocked, then stepped back and stood at attention. Bracing as he heard the door being unlocked from the other side, he saluted as a slightly irritated looking feline peered through the crack of the opened door. "Sorry to bother you, Sir, but we've got a call for you from the SecDef." He extended the device he carried. "He says the code is the 'op for the first time'; I hope you know what he means."

Lee relaxed and nodded wryly and extended his paw for the SCU (Secure Communications Unit - a wireless follow-on to the STU-III telephone used when he first got into the business). "I understand, sergeant. That key would mean something to only a very few furs. Don't worry about it."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you. Just bring the unit down with you in the morning."

"Will do; you get yourself some rest, too."

"Thank you again, Mr. Evans. It's a pleasure dealing with somefur who understands."

"More than you know, sergeant, more than you know."

Shutting the door, Lee turned to pad back to the bed, keying in the eight letter code as he went. Debbye looked up from where she was stretched out on her stomach. "Trouble, love?"

"I don't think so, I suspect it's more checking to make certain we're okay," he grinned. "And I think it's more than just Joe that's interested."

Debbye shifted her feet as her husband carefully sat down on the end of the bed and eased his tail to a comfortable position. Punching the "Activate" button, he also set the unit so that both he and Debbye could hear and speak.

"Lee, I'm here with Frank Belton. We both wanted to make good and damn sure that you and Debbye were really okay." Lee heard a momentary mumble in background. "Oh, Frank also says that he'd better have full information on your conditions before he heads to the house or his CinC-HOME will get after him."

The couple both laughed at the image that created for them and in recognition of its truth. Debbye spoke up, "Tell Diana we're both in decent shape, considering."

"Yeah," added the cat. "We're both feeling somewhat chewed up and beat on, but you should see the other guys; they're all down at the morgue."

"I figured as much," came Frank's relieved tones.

"We were in a late meeting with the JCS," explained Joe, "when the news came through. Frank's wife called shortly thereafter saying it was on TV and asking him to check on you. I have to tell you, though, Lee; you've managed to toast the Chairman's balls and help out your friend here at the same time."

"Oh? How so?"

"When we heard the news, I was aware that he knew you well and asked Frank's opinion. He didn't twitch an eyelash before saying that if they didn't get you in the first volley, you'd get the bad guys. The Chairman just flat didn't believe that a civilian could be that good so he challenged Frank, here, to back up his words. He bet an immediate jump to the head of the promotion list against Frank's salary for a month that you couldn't or wouldn't do it."

The battered couple looked at each other and snickered. "I guess he must not have read Lee's file, huh?" responded Debbye.

"Nope," Frank replied with a laugh, "But then, he **_is_** Navy and he wouldn't have known; we never did put out much publicity on that action. Anyway, he was fuckin' impressed - sorry Debbye ..."

"Don't fret over it."

"... thanks - by just what you **_did_** manage, but paid up with good grace anyway, mumbling something about a general needing to be a good judge of furs and this proved that I indeed was."

"Good for you," replied Lee with a grin.

"And congratulations and felicitations to you and Diana," added the Debbye.

"Thanks."

Joe finished up, "Well, now that we're certain our good friends are healthy, we'll let you get your needed rest. G'night, you two." The SCU closed the circuit when the other party hung up.

"Rest, huh?" said Lee in an ironic tone.

"That's what the guy said."

Lee shut off the unit and padded over to place it inside a suitcase.

"What're you doing?"

"I know it shouldn't do anything, but I'm not taking chances," he replied. Turning, he moved quickly back to bed and slid in beside her, taking her face gently in his paws, and depositing a kiss on her nose. "Now where were we?"

She pushed him over onto his back and straddled him in one smooth motion. "Right about here, if memory serves."

"You sure you're up to this, Hon?"

She nodded. "Good painkillers. Really good." She moved against him, leaning down until her headfur tickled his face. "And after what we went through today? You have no idea just how _much_ I need it."

. . .

. . .

. . .


	3. Vignette:  Martin and Samantha

**_Vignette: Martin and Samantha_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**Excess on occasion is exhilarating.  
****It prevents moderation from acquiring  
****the deadening effect of a habit.**

_**-W. Somerset Maugham**_

##

_** Sunday 23 October 2016 – 8:30pm **_

Martin wiped the wetness from Samantha's cheeks with a gentle finger. He hadn't kept track of how many times he'd done that this night, but he began to think it was quite a few.

She already had possession of his other paw, and reached up for the one he was using on her face. She pulled it down to her mouth and kissed it softly.

"I'm sorry I'm such a mess, Martin. I wish you didn't have to see me with my eyes all red on our last night."

"Hush, lass," he told her with a gentle smile. "An' don' ye be callin' this our las' night. This be nothin' like 'goodbye', an' ye well know it."

Her response was to move up and kiss him. They held each other tightly for several minutes, lost in the experience.

When she got her breath back, she asked, "You won't forget about me, will you?"

Eyebrows rising, he looked at her incredulously. "How can ye ask that, then? Do ye think I might forget how t' breathe? Or that me heart would forget t' beat? An' ye do, I might take that seriously. But I think ye know better." He pulled her to him again, kissing her forehead, then her ears, then her mouth, and she responded hungrily. They settled down after a while with her leaning against his chest, her head below his muzzle, her legs across his lap.

"Martin?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not driving back home tonight, are you?"

"No. They don' want any of us travelin' at night until they do some more checkin'."

"Would you … like to stay with me?"

He sat back and caught her eye. "Where be all this doubt comin' from, leannán? Ye mus' know how that I love ye more than I knew t'was possible t' love anyone!"

"No. That's – um – not what I meant." And she reached up and caressed the side of his muzzle, smiling hopefully.

He caught her meaning, and caught his breath an instant later. The visceral response to her invitation sent the blood rushing to places he couldn't afford to think about just then. His own voice ringing hollow in his ears, he said, "Ye know we canna do that."

"Why not?"

"Ye be but thirteen, lass. An' ye should know I love ye too much to put our relationship in jeopardy."

She sighed. "Y'know, I thought you might say something like that." She gave him that melting look. "I really want you to be my first, though."

That statement troubled him. "Samantha Diane Foxx, it be me intention not t' jist be your first, but t' be your only. Ever. An' I'm willin' t' wait as long as need be to secure that future." He frowned. "Does what ye said mean ye think we'd be together for only a while, an' then ye'd move on t' somebody better?"

Her eyes widened in shock as she realized the import of what she'd said. "Oh! Oh, crap! Oh, Martin, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it that way! Really! No, I love _you_! I just, you know, I was … that is … oh, crap!"

He moved her off his lap and turned her to face him. He could tell she was tearing up again, and wanted to say his piece before she started crying in earnest.

"Samantha, lass, listen t' me." He took her arms in his paws to solidify her attention. "I know."

She sniffled. "You do? Really?"

"Aye. I know many other things as well. I c'n tell how ye feel about me. I know how much _I_ love _you_, an' I know it be not a passin' thrill. It's solid. A forever kind o' thing."

"Oh, yes! That's it!"

He stopped her. "But I know, too, that ye be young. Mature for y'r age an' all, I admit, but still, ye be but a slip of a girl."

Her muzzle quivered. She didn't like being reminded of her relative youth and inexperience. Even less did she like to dwell on what that meant in legal terms. But Martin continued.

"Th' only way t' know _for sure_ if th' love ye feel now will last is t' wait an' see."

"That stinks."

"It would be worse if we jumped into somethin' physical, an' then a year or two later ye decided maybe ye weren't really in love after all."

"But I am!"

"Aye. That ye are. Now. But this be not the nineteenth century, ye be legally underage, an' I feel _that sure_ y'r Dad would have a thing or two t' say about it."

She pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her nose. "I don't have to like it, though."

"I didn' say I liked it either. When … when ye said what ye did, makin' that offer, it was … a hard thing t' tell ye no. But what feels good and what feels right sometimes be different things. An' waitin', for now, is what's right."

She leaned back up against him, silent, pensive. He put an arm around her shoulders, sighing and closing his eyes. _This is how it has to be. I have to protect her. Especially from myself. But it sure isn't easy sometimes._

Much later, he escorted her back to her room before retiring to his own.

**. . .**

**. . .**

**. . .**


	4. Vignette:  Newspaper

**_Vignette: Newspaper_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

(Reported in_ The Washington Times _on Sunday, the 23rd of October, 2016)

**ASSASSINATION IN RURAL VERMONT**

DAWS CROSSING, VT. – For the last few months, this quiet New England state has suffered more than its fair share of violent crime. Since the species-purist organization, The Knights of the Pure Strain, staged a minor invasion last summer, the rates for assault, armed robbery, forcible rape, and murder have increased as much as ten-fold. The reign of terror, which has been reported here before, was largely brought to a halt in the last week of September when state and local police, working with the FIA and coordinated by Vermont Attorney-General Michael Truefoot, got a break in the case and made over four hundred arrests. Most of the members of that organization, now declared seditious and outlawed, left the state as fast as they could. But on Saturday evening, a hard-core, fanatical band of the group's former leaders gave the people of Vermont something to remember them by.

Vermont's Attorney-General is dead, assassinated in his home by the purist terrorists. Also dead in the same attack were Henry S. Proso, husband of Lieutenant Governor Lucia P. Proso; Vermont Office of Homeland Security special agents Stanley M. Morse, Rebecca D. Opossum, Andrew I. Sanereja, and Tobias P. Greene; and Vermont State Patrol Sergeant Harvane W. Spaniel, and Trooper Thomas L. Lynx.

In the aftermath of the attack, investigators pieced together the plot. The purists, led by Niles Grosvenor, a known affiliate of terrorist organizations, had infiltrated the company that had been chosen to cater for the Attorney-General's gathering, killing the owner, Millicent Lutreola, and three of her employees, whose names have been withheld pending notification of the next of kin. Niles Grosvenor arranged to have five of his accomplices impersonate the caterers while the bulk of the estimated thirty fanatics hid in blinds in the forest around the house. The imposters attended the gathering, bringing with them a powerful bomb that police investigators have determined was stored in a service cart. The operation appears to have been meticulously planned, with details worked out over a period of weeks.

With the exception of the Attorney-General, all those who were killed died in the initial explosion and assault. Mr. Truefoot died later that night of multiple gunshot wounds.

But the police investigators think that things did not go as Mr. Grosvenor had planned. The bomb probably detonated too early, since it was still in the remote kitchen wing of the house, and four of the purists died with the two State Troopers in the blast. Just after the explosion, the terrorists who were hiding outside opened fire with automatic weapons, felling Mr. Proso and Mr. Truefoot, and the four Homeland Security agents.

The attacking force also seems not to have taken into account the presence of one Conner von Trapp. Mr. von Trapp, a former special-forces operative with Marine Forest Reconnaissance, had heavy weapons of his own, and returned fire, killing many of the purists. He was aided in this by the Lieutenant Governor's personal guard and a third State Trooper (all of whom wish to remain anonymous), and by a young dormouse named Martin O'Musca. This plucky fellow, who had just recently celebrated his eighteenth birthday, constructed, in a matter of minutes, a working mortar out of household items he found in the garage. With this weapon, he and two other young furs held the southwest corner against the vicious intruders.

The death toll in this attack, including those listed among the ones who staged it, stands at thirty-two. Four of the purists escaped. Two of them were injured, one critically, and this slowed them down enough that they were captured later that night. Since none of the leaders survived, it may never be known for certain why this attack was carried out. But the most probable explanation, according to the officials we interviewed, is revenge, since Michael Truefoot had been instrumental in shutting down their society of hate.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Page 1 of 1


	5. Vignette: Chris and Karl

**_Vignette: Chris and Karl_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

_** Sunday 22 October 2016 – 3:00pm **_

Chris limped into the hospital courtyard and looked about, spotting the wolverine on a bench beside the fence. He hobbled over and sat down heavily.

"Oof! Didn't start off feeling all that chipper. This leg really puts a damper on things."

Karl didn't say anything. He didn't look up or acknowledge the fox's presence.

Chris said, "It won't work, you know."

After a span of about four seconds, Karl turned his head slightly in Chris' direction and said, "What won't?"

"Ignoring me. It won't work. I'll just keep talking. I like to hear myself talk. I have a very musical voice, don't you think? Should have been an orator. Or at least a lawyer. Now there's a profession where a guy can talk! Why just last week I was watching this show, and there was this lawyer on there who had a …"

Karl reached over and clamped Chris' muzzle shut. "I get the point." He released the now-grinning fox and asked, "So, what do you want?"

"Karl," said Chris. "Do you remember when Martin was in the hospital, before that surgeon fixed him up?"

The big fur failed to see what this question had to do with anything. "Yes."

"You told me not to beat myself up over what I'd told the guards. Remember? About not letting anyone in to see us?"

"I remember. What of it?"

"Well, it was good advice, and I took it to heart. Now I'm gonna give it back to you."

"How's that?"

"From all we've heard, those purists spent a considerable amount of time laying the groundwork for their attack. They killed the caterers and took their places. They had a bomb, and a big one. They knew the land around Michael's place like they were born there, so they must have known about the party almost as long as Michael did. But even with all that preparation, after that first few seconds, when everybody got shot, we were able to hold 'em off. Well, I say 'we', but it was really Conner and Lee and Debbye and Martin and the agents." He chuckled ruefully. "All I managed to do was lay my leg open on a gas can."

"Are you trying to tell me not to worry about it? That I couldn't have made a difference?"

"Yup. That about sums it up."

"Baloney."

"Baloney, yourself! You got some sort of psychic powers? Could you have figured out there was a bomb in the kitchen, and disarmed it before it blew up? Something like, 'Oh, by the way everyone, my awesome mental powers reveal that we are going to be attacked by two dozen raving lunatics in about ten minutes, so we'd all better stay indoors!' Is that what you think?"

"Please go away."

"Nope!" he replied cheerfully. "Can't walk on this leg. Doctor's orders, y'know. Gotta stay here and pound some sense into the guy who saved my daughter's life."

"What?"

"You think I'd forget that? Sabrina told me about it. You were the one who took out the rotten no-good that was holding a knife at Sam's throat. Yeah, I know Martin held off the others for a while, but he was hurtin' _bad_ by the time you showed up."

"So what?"

"So if it had been a physical struggle, some kind of close combat, and more of us had been hurt or killed, I'd see some logic in the way you feel. But it wasn't, and we weren't. There ain't a damned thing you could have done that Lee and Conner and Martin didn't do. You ought to be proud of the boy, instead of moping like this."

No reply.

Chris leaned back against the chain-link fence and closed his eyes. There was no wind to speak of in the courtyard, and the sun fell full on his face, warming the fur, but still. The ambient hovered just above zero, and he'd been out here long enough. He leaned forward and rose heavily. As he began limping for the door, he said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Karl. I'm gonna go by and see Special Agent Carras before we head back to the compound, see how his busted arm is doing. He lost a good bit of blood, y'know.

Again, no reply.

Chris sighed. "We're leaving tomorrow morning at first light. We're having a little get-together with the O'Musca family. Not a party. Doesn't feel right, and nobody's in the mood anyhow. But we'll be having supper and visiting for a while afterward. You're more than welcome to join us."

Karl continued to stare at the ground.

The fox shrugged and made his way back inside, shivering a little as he moved into the shadow of the wall.

. . .

. . .

. . .


	6. Vignette: Lee and Martin

**_Vignette: Lee and Martin_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**Write down the advice of him who loves you,  
****though you like it not at present.**

_**-**_ _**English Proverb**_

##

_** Sunday 23 October 2016 – 7:40pm **_

The gathering had been, as one might surmise, a solemn affair. Since Emily had spent the previous night in the hospital, and was still on some heavy-duty pain-killers, she and Cinnamon (who wasn't in the mood for company, and felt none too spry herself) had opted for an early bedtime. So the Foxxes and the O'Musca's had met around five-thirty, partaken of a light supper, and assembled haphazardly in the large common room. There they had been sitting around, reminiscing for last half hour or so.

When Lee and Debbye came in, Chris rose to greet them. Both of them were moving very stiffly, still sore from the wounds they'd received. Lee helped Debbye get situated on a couch (which she very carefully avoided leaning against) and then stood beside her. Chris patted the chair next to the couch. "Take a load off, guy. Plenty of room."

"I'd love to, Chris, but my tail's too sore to bend like that." He gingerly felt around the area at its base and said, "Got poked a little deeper than I'd thought. Aches like the very devil."

They fell into an easy, if subdued, conversation, and passed the time in as pleasant a manner as could be achieved under the circumstances. Debbye chatted with Sabrina and Siobhan while the two males talked shop. Daren was engrossed in a paw-held V-R game, and paid no one else any attention whatsoever. And Martin … ?

Samantha had made sure, more than once, that the dormouse had all her contact information. He could write, e-mail, or call, or even vox or text on her new PA. That unit had been a recent present to her from her "Aunt" Wendy, who differed with Sabrina on how long her parental leash ought to be. Sabrina had agreed to a trial period for the device, but she had Chris adjust the settings to limit its use to thirty minutes a day. "No all-night messaging marathons, right Sam?"

But at present she was close to Martin's side, in the protective curve of his arm, wishing fervently that this night would never end.

Lee had noticed them as soon as they got there, and had monitored their mood ever since. "Hey Chris? You remember what we talked about this afternoon?"

"Yup. You gonna tell Martin now?"

"Thought I would. We won't have a better time, face-to-face."

"Sure. Go ahead." He grinned and winked. "I'll horn in on the girls' chat. They'll love it."

"Try not lose any body parts, okay?"

"No worries, mate!" And he padded over to the couch.

Lee headed for the alcove where the young furs stood, casting a single shadow into the room. He tapped Martin on the shoulder.

"Yessir?"

"Martin, would you mind walking outside with me for a bit? I have something I want to discuss with you." He glanced at the dark vixen. "Do you mind, Sam? It really won't take but a few minutes."

She shook her head. Martin drew her paw up to his lips and said, "I'll not be long, leannán."

"Okay. I'll go wait with Mom."

Martin followed Lee out into the small yard, stuffing his paws into the pockets of his pants. "Gettin' on to winter, an' that's the truth of it."

Lee's fur was longer and denser than Martin's, but he felt the cold, too. "I won't keep us out here long enough to freeze. Martin, what I wanted to say is this: You're going to be in the spotlight shortly, and before everyone else has a crack at you, I'd like to make you an offer."

The mouse was confused. "Spotlight? What do ye mean? What offer, sir?"

"Two-fold, really. First off, I expect that with the recognition you will achieve from your part in repelling the Knights, you will be receiving scholarship offers from a number of engineering colleges."

"Ye canna mean it!"

The cat nodded. "I will be dumbfounded if you don't. I keep up with a lot of things, and I have what you might call 'ears in the right places'. I strongly suspect that at least a couple of industry trade journals will want to do an article on you, and you can bet hard cash that some of the Radical-Reality-Vid outfits will be contacting you."

"Och! Those abominations! I'll be 'avin' not'in' t' do wit' any of 'em." His brogue thickened somewhat under the stress of the news.

"I feel the same way, and I applaud your stance on that topic. I realize you probably haven't thought about it, as embroiled in local events as you've been, but I'll wager that your name is going to become, if not a household word, at least fairly well-known. For a while, at any rate."

"But I don' see how! 'Twas Mr. von Trapp an' yesilf, beggin' yer pardon, sir, what staved off the Knights. We jist sorta helped a bit."

"More than you realize, I am quite sure. You secured the southwest entrance to the grounds. The rest of us couldn't be everywhere at once, and you may have saved several lives with your knock-together mortar. And Martin?" He placed a paw on the young fur's shoulder.

"Aye, sir?"

"I'd appreciate it greatly if you were to keep my name out of any discussions you may have about the defense of the house."

"Sir?"

"In my position I can't really afford any notoriety. It's something of a national defense issue."

"Oh." He considered that for a moment. "Have ye spoken wi' Mr. von Trapp about it?"

"I have. He was also hesitant. He felt I should get some credit, but as far as I'm concerned, all the furs who have any _need_ to know already _do_ know about my part in it."

"I see, sir. Very well, if that's how ye want it, I'll go along."

"Good. Now, about the scholarships, as I said, I'll be very surprised if you don't get several offers, but let me add mine to the list. I've spoken with Karl about you quite a few times, and from what I know of your abilities, you'd make a fine addition to my team. So if you want to get an engineering degree or two, just remember that you will not have to worry about financial support."

"Really?" The young mouse seemed to grow a couple of centimeters on the spot. "Oh, sir, me Mum will be that relieved! She knew I had me heart set on college, but we had no way o' payin' for it. This news'll make her day!"

"Just promise me that you'll work hard and do your best." He chuckled. "And at least _consider_ a career with my crew when you graduate."

"Aye, sir! It'd be an honor to work wit' ye." Other wheels began turning in that keen, young mind. "That'll mean … that is, I'll be able to provide for … um, does, uh, Mister Foxx know about yer offer?"

Lee laughed out loud. "I thought you might make that connection. Yes, he does." Here the cat's smile grew, as he said, "Consider it both a payback to him and a pay-forward to yourself; he was one of the furs who checked me out, way back when, when I first started dating Debbye. I've already spoken with him about my plans. And you should know that he approves of you. He particularly approves of your, eh, self-restraint."

The dormouse's eyebrows shot up. "Ah … um … how, uh, that is, what do ye mean by that?"

"Martin, the Foxxes are a very close-knit family. They have a lot of love and respect for each other, and hold very few secrets, as I understand it. Samantha apparently 'fessed-up' about … an offer she made to you."

His facial fur fluffed out in spikes as he blushed furiously. He couldn't quite come up with anything to say.

"Martin, concerning your young lady, I just want you to know a couple of things. One is that you are not in a unique position. When Debbye and I first started seeing each other, the temptation to get intimate was staggering. She was nineteen, six years younger than I, and without a doubt the most attractive femme I'd ever met. But we decided very early in our relationship that full physical intimacy, or anything that might get too close to it, should be reserved for a marriage commitment. It was not always easy, and sometimes no fun at all, but I am here to say that it was worth it. It was worth every _minute_ we waited. She knows, beyond any possibility of doubt, that I don't _just_ love her, I don't _just_ get turned on by her. I also respect and cherish her. And the value of that respect and trust, as you grow together as a couple, is beyond price."

"Aye, sir. Me Dad told me some o' the same, though he didn' get much into details at th' time."

"I would very much have liked to meet your father, Martin. Just knowing you, I get an idea of what a fine fur he must have been."

"That he was, sir. Finest as ever drew breath."

Lee pointed back toward the door. "I'm ready to go back in. Have you had enough frostbite to last you a while?"

"Aye, sir, that I have. After you."

. . .

. . .

. . .


	7. Vignette: Sandee and Sally

**_Vignette: Sandee and Sally_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**A misery is not to be measured from the nature of the evil,  
****but from the temper of the sufferer****.**

_**-**_ _**Joseph Addison**_

##

_** Monday 24 October 2016 – 6:00pm **_

Sally, the youngest member of the Grey household at eight years of age, never hesitated to ask her mother about anything that bothered her. Today was no exception. She came into the kitchen where Sandee was whipping the potatoes, and walked over to stand beside her mother. Leaning both elbows on the counter, she said, "Mom?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"What's wrong with Emily? She's got her leg all wrapped up and she can't walk."

Sandee hadn't been looking forward to this conversation. She sighed and said, "She got hurt."

"What happened?"

"Some bad furs hurt her."

The little squirrelette's eyes got very round. "Why?"

"You remember how we talked about that purist group you saw on the news the other night?"

"The Knights of … Something?"

"Knights of the Pure Strain. Yes, them."

Sally nodded.

"Well, some of them … attacked a party, and Emily and her mom were there. They both … got shot."

"Shot! Somebody _shot_ Emily?"

"Yes."

"With a gun?"

"Yes, with a gun."

"But she's just a little kid!"

"I know, honey, but when a fur's mind gets clouded and twisted with hate, that fur can do some pretty awful things."

"Well I think that stinks! Emily's nice! They oughta put 'em all in jail forever!"

Sandee had anticipated this reaction. "They probably would, usually. Emily's mom had to testify at a trial, and some others in that group of Knights did go to jail. For a very long time." She added a dollop of sour cream and a shake or two of freshly-ground black pepper to the potatoes, and stirred. "But the ones who shot Emily all died in the fight."

"Oh." She pondered that information for several seconds. "They're dead, huh?"

"Yes, they are."

"Well, good. Serves 'em good for hurtin' Emily like that."

Sandee finished with the bowl, covered it with plastic wrap, and beckoned Sally over to the kitchen table, where they both sat. "Sweetie, do you know where your daddy goes every Wednesday night?"

"Sure. Up to the prison in St. Albans."

"Yes, he does. It takes him an hour to get there, but he goes most every week to lead a Bible study."

Sally nodded. "Yeah, Mr. Pearsen at church used to be there. He stole some stuff and they made him give it back and he had to go to jail for a while and that's where he met Daddy and he came and talked to our Sunday School class about it."

"That's right. They met in the Bible study. There are lots of furs in that prison who have been coming to the study for a long time, and your father has led many of them to know the Lord."

"Like Mr. Pearsen!"

"Yes. And some of those furs were in prison for murder."

Sally stared at her mother, but didn't say anything.

"There are two furs in his Bible study who have life sentences without parole. Do you know what that means?"

"… It means they'll be there a long time. Till they die."

"That's right. But those two furs are not the same as they were when they went in. They have a new life, and they wake up every morning smiling because they know there's a better place waiting on them when they die. And they've led other prisoners to the Lord themselves. One of them was a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang. He'd been a criminal since he wasn't much older than you. But he's changed now. The Lord can change anyfur." She patted her daughter's arm. "But once a fur is dead, he loses his chance to change. So, even though those furs did some horrible things, it would have been better if they could have been caught instead of being killed. Because now, they don't have _any_ chance to know the Lord."

Sally thought about that for a minute, and then said, "I'm gonna go see if Emily wants to play Batik with me, okay?"

_Changing the subject, huh? That's about par for her age._ "Okay, honey. I'm sure she'd like that."

. . .

. . .

. . .


	8. Vignette: History

**_Vignette: History_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**Death is a friend of ours;  
****and he that is not ready to entertain him is not at home.**

_**-Francis Bacon**_

##

_** Wednesday 26 October 2016 – 1:45pm **_

In the winter of 1883, Michael Truefoot's great-great grandfather, Wolf-Follows-Near, an Assiniboine chieftain, is forced, with his starving and half-frozen tribe, onto the reservation that had been established in the desolate north side of the Missouri Breaks. The government-sponsored extermination of the buffalo (in retaliation, as most thought, for Sitting Bull's campaign) had finally broken their spirit. Fully two-thirds of the tribe dies that winter, including the chief. But his wife and second son live.

In 1887, the Dawe's Act puts the last nail in the coffin containing tribal heritage by allotting a specific plot of land to each individual adult male or head of household. Singing Fawn, the wife of Wolf-Follows-Near, is obliged to take her thirteen-year old son, Crow-Takes-Arrows, and move in with her cousin, Shakes Trees, to avoid being declared an outlaw. Shakes Trees has a great fondness for whiskey. He treats her as a concubine, and beats the boy.

In the spring of 1902 Singing Fawn dies in childbirth. Michael's great-grandfather, Crow-Takes-Arrows, kills Shakes Trees when the older fur attacks him in a drunken rage. He escapes from the Fort Peck Reservation with his lover, Fern-that-Sways, and a group of several other young furs. They walk to Canada and establish themselves in a small valley near the Lake of the Rivers, a traditional meeting place where their people would hold yearly gatherings. It is here that One True Foot is born to them in 1904.

In 1928, Michael's grandfather, One True Foot travels back to the United States with his wife, Maria, and their two-year-old twin sons. He adopts the first name of Jacob, and uses Truefoot as his surname. They settle in Marked Tree, Arkansas, just south of Missouri and just west of the Mississippi River, and Jacob becomes a tailor's apprentice.

In 1931, Maria joins the local Methodist church. Jacob does not trust the gods of the European invaders, and will not allow his sons to attend with her.

In 1937, Crow-Takes-Arrows appears on their doorstep one night in late summer. Fern-that-Sways had died of a fever, and so with nothing to keep him in Canada, he followed his son to Arkansas. Over the next few months he develops a strong bond with his two grandsons, John and Mark.

In 1939, Jacob Truefoot and Crow-Takes-Arrows are dragged out of their home, beaten, and lynched, along with more than two dozen other "immigrants, Jews, homosexuals, godless Commies, and no-goods" in the area. Maria Truefoot escapes and she and her two boys move to Memphis. She never quite recovers, emotionally, from the horror of losing her husband, and never goes back to church.

In 1944, in a wry twist of irony, John Truefoot is drafted into the same United States Army that had nearly succeeded in killing off his ancestors. He was killed in action on Okinawa in April 1945. Mark, however, is 4-F because one of his legs is almost ten centimeters shorter than the other. He goes to college instead, earning a degree in economics. After that he goes to law school, where in 1950 he meets and marries the love of his life, Grace (Swallow-Flies-At-Dusk) Tworivers.

In 1953, Mark and Grace have a daughter, Anna. Nine years later, Michael is born. Mark takes an active part in the legal defense of hybrids during the purist tensions that grip the nation in the 1960's. In 1969, three weeks before Michael's seventh birthday, Mark is shot four times as he gets out of his car in the parking lot beside his law office. He was forty-three. In 1977, Grace suffers a paralyzing stroke and can't speak or move her legs for the rest of her life. She dies in 1981, at the age of fifty-two, when Michael is a freshman in college. His sister, as executrix, sells the house, sets up a trust for Michael's education, and moves back to Montana, where the Assiniboine once roamed free.

In 2016, purist aggressors murdered Michael Truefoot in his own home. He was fifty-four, and had never married. But lately he'd had good prospects.

Cinnamon Jones stood on a steep promontory overlooking Woodhawk Creek in the Badlands of central Montana. She watched as tribal Elders ordered the preparation of Michael's body for a traditional burial, in the manner of the People of the Plain. He had been dressed in a jacket trimmed in red feathers and decorated with intricate beadwork. The mourners were currently in the process of sewing him into a rawhide cover. They kept up a constant wailing and keening, which had brought back Cinnamon's headache with a vengeance.

Sunday and Monday were lost to her memory in a haze of pain and sorrow. She had managed to get through most of the memorial service on Tuesday without _really_ breaking down. The viewing had been difficult: she had to stand there with Michael's sister and two male cousins, and the Elder who had come all the way to Vermont from his tribal council. All of them obviously disapproved of this Christian-oriented ritual. They had donned the traditional funereal garb of the Assiniboine, and it would not be an understatement to say that they stood out in the crowd. And a crowd it had been. Well over four hundred furs came to the memorial eulogy, people Michael had known or helped or represented. Cinnamon was given a fresh realization of how many lives one fur could touch.

Emily was still too sore and cranky to go anywhere, and the Greys had volunteered to look after her until Cinnamon got back. She had gone with the tribal party on the red-eye out of Burlington, changing planes in Cincinnati and Madison, and arriving in Montana, dead tired and miserable, early this morning. The drive out to the burial grounds had passed in stony silence. Not one word did any of them offer her. No condolences, no sympathy. Nothing. She noticed, but did not care. She didn't feel like talking anyway. But it made her resent them for insisting so forcefully that she go along on the trip.

They finished encasing Michael's body in the rawhide, and four males lifted the bundle up onto the burial scaffold. The Elder who seemed to be in charge of the operation came over to Cinnamon and held out a small bag to her. She took it, looked it over, and asked, "What do I do with this? What's in it?"

"Two locks of his headfur. You must build a ghost-lodge at the place where he was shot, and place one lock of headfur in it on a special tripod. I put instructions on how to do it in the bag."

"Oh. Okay." She held the bag in both paws, staring at it silently, trying to will her headache away. The wailing continued in the background.

"This is important."

She nodded.

He emphasized, "That part of his spirit that is still tied to that place must be given leave to rejoin the Great Mystery."

"If you say so."

"Look at me, female!"

The command in his voice could not be ignored. She met his gaze.

"You are a daughter of the land! You may have become a child of these modern times, but I can see the mark of our Delaware brothers in your face, and I have seen your face in my dreams. He loved you. He will not depart until you give him your permission."

She sighed. "How big does the lodge need to be?"

"Not big. It is a ceremonial lodge. But it _must_ be done!"

"All right. If you think it's that important, I'll do it."

"Before the new moon."

"Okay."

"Miss Jones, it was important to him, too."

She locked eyes with him. "I'll see to it. Don't worry. I won't forget."

The mourners had taken up positions around the scaffold and were swaying gently back and forth, holding paws and crying their grief to the wide sky.

. . .

. . .

. . .


	9. Vignette: Ellen and Wendy

**_Vignette: Ellen and Wendy_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**While grief is fresh, every attempt to divert only irritates.  
****You must wait till it be digested,  
****and then amusement will dissipate the remains of it.**

_**-Samuel Johnson**_

##

_** Wednesday 26 October 2016 – 3:30pm **_

The violent opening of the kitchen door would have startled Ellen, had she not been alerted to Wendy's presence by her heavy stomping across the rear porch. The vixen's pretty face screwed into a dangerous frown, she dumped her bag on the counter by the door, ripped off her overcoat, and flung the damp garment in the approximate direction of the coat rack. (The weather had been very drippy since noon.) Glaring around the kitchen, she spotted the cutting board next to the sink. The carrots, zucchini, and kohlrabi for the early meal's main casserole lay beside it. She stalked to the knife rack, grabbed the largest chef's knife, and proceeded to shred the vegetables with murderous vigor.

Ellen watched in silence for a minute, kneading the large lump on the table in front of her. Flour covered the thin plastic gloves on her paws as she worked on the manchet-bread dough. She decided to let Wendy start the conversation. Assuming she wanted to.

The vixen finished dicing (and re-dicing, and re-re-dicing …) the vegetables, and scraped them into a large, expanding steamer. This she took over to the sink, where she ran a couple of centimeters of water into the base. Placing the assembly on the stove and the lid on the steamer, she checked the kitchen clock, shrugged, and turned the flame to 'Medium'. Then she went to the table, pulled out a chair opposite Ellen, and sat. Crossing her arms on her chest, she spat out one word: "Males!"

Ellen finished the dough, patted it into a nice round, and plopped it into a large, greased bowl, which she covered with a towel and set off to the side. She removed and discarded the gloves, hung her apron on its hook, and propped herself against the edge of the table. "Anyone I know?"

"Somefur I wish I _didn't_ know! That stupid wolf!"

"Conner?" Ellen wondered what had happened to elicit this sort of reaction. She noted that much of Wendy's tail was bristled, a sure sign of anger. "Uh … what'd he do?"

"He acted like a complete jerk all morning. And then at lunch …" Her brows drew together over her clenched muzzle.

Ellen had figured out on Sunday that it was best to tread very lightly with Wendy these days. Any little off-paw, innocuous comment could send her into a tirade. So she approached this conversation with extreme caution. "Something he said?"

"Yes."

"Anything you'd like to get off your chest?" She held up her paws as Wendy shot her a look through narrowed eyes. "Only if you feel like it! It's your business."

Wendy _huffed_ a couple of times, and then turned around and put one elbow on the table, resting the side of her head on that fist. "You know what that sanctimonious hypocrite told me?"

"Sancti…! … um … no. What?"

"He was making with the stupid jokes and asinine puns all morning. I just wanted to relax and walk around Middlebury. They're having that 'Taste of Autumn' festival this coming weekend, and they're already getting set up for it. I mean to be there."

"Yeah, me too. It should be fun."

"He kept on with the 'Lighten up!' and 'Let's turn that frown upside down!' and 'I don't see my _happy face_!' like some moronic schoolkid." Her voice got decidedly _chirpy_ when she mimicked Conner, and Ellen had to fight to keep from smiling. She feared a smile might not set well with her employer right now.

"And you _weren't_ in the mood."

"No."

"Who could blame you after last weekend?"

" … Yeah." Wendy sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "I coulda got around that kind of nonsense, though. He was trying to help, I guess, just going about it all wrong." Her face clouded up again. "But what he said at lunch! **OHHH!**"

Ellen waited several seconds before asking, "Uh … what was that?"

Wendy gave her a level stare. "We went to The Queen's Head. It's that little British-type-pub place they have down there on North Street."

"That one just off Seminary?"

"Yeah. Nice place. Good atmosphere. I was looking forward to it, had my mouth all set for a steak and kidney pie. And then he had to go and ruin it."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Ellen responded sympathetically. She waited another little bit, and then prompted, "How?"

"With his big, fat, stupid mouth." She adjusted herself in her seat, brought her tail up across her lap, took out a brush, and began working on the fur. "Our waiter was this little, thin ferret guy in a rainbow-tie-dyed pullover. Had his headfur in a long braid, and his clawtips were polished. Light blue. And he had some quirky affectations. You know, kinda broadcasting his sexual preferences. And Conner just lit into him!"

"Huh?"

"Giving him all kinds of hell because of the way he moved! Made fun of the way he talked! Just generally being an ass."

"Geez!"

"And then …" Wendy sighed deeply and frowned as she worked out a small knot in her tailfur. "… then he called the host over and asked for a different waiter."

"He didn't!"

"He did. The host said he'd try to accommodate us, but that we'd have to sit somewhere else, since the waiters worked by zone. And then Conner argued with _him!_ Couldn't keep his big 'von Trapp' shut. Idiot. I hate it when a guy gets a case of testosterone poisoning."

"Damn! What'd you do?"

"Told him to cool it. Told him there wasn't anything wrong with our waiter, and he could just sit there and take it. Told him he really ought to apologize to the guy. And then he got up on his high horse, and said there was no way he was gonna take service from a – from a _'faggot'_."

Ellen's jaw hit the floor. "He _didn't!_ Tell me he didn't say that!"

"He did. Loud enough for most of the furs in the place to hear him, too. And, understandably, the host asked us to leave."

"Holy shit! So you _didn't_ have lunch there? What did you do?"

"I didn't say _**I**_ didn't have lunch there."

"Oh." Ellen could see where this was going.

"We went outside and I tore into him. And he yelled at me. And I asked what the hell right he had to do that. And he goes off about 'perversion' and 'unnatural' and crap like that, and I told him I thought he was full of **shit**, and he said I could **stuff** it. And I said I was going back in there and eating lunch, and if he decided to go somewhere else, that was _fine_ with me!"

"Crap!"

"So then he tells me …" she sighed and shook her head, her mouth tight. "… he tells me, as if it's supposed to make things _better_, that the waiter looked a lot like a … I can't believe he actually said this … like a 'candy-ass' that he'd 'had to take out' in England one time."

" 'Take _out'_?"

"He beat him up. Beat the hell out of him. And he had his Marine buddies cheering him on the whole time, the way he tells it."

"Son. Of. A. Bitch."

"Yeah. Said our waiter reminded him of that incident, and it made him want to take _him_ apart, too."

" … … … Damn."

"So I didn't say anything else. I went back inside, apologized to the host, apologized to the waiter, and ordered lunch." She sighed once more. "Didn't have much appetite, though."

"So … so where'd Conner go after that?"

"Like I care?"

"Oh, Wendy, I'm sorry!" She reached over and took the vixen's paw, squeezing it in a gesture of support. "And here I was thinking you'd found 'Mister Right'. Stupid of me."

Wendy squeezed back and patted Ellen's paw with her other one. " 's okay. I'll get over it." She vented a long sigh, and said, "I always do."

"Oh, damn, Wendy, I just feel terrible about that! Who knew he could be so – so …"

"Insensitive?"

"Eh. That's a nice way to put it. Bigoted was the thought that came to mind. He just dissed, what, ten percent of the population?"

"Higher than that around here. I think it's closer to fifteen for the state of Vermont." The vixen chuckled wryly. "_Fifty_ percent, if you count only present company. Although given his reaction I'm pretty sure _he_ didn't know that."

Ellen's eyes widened noticeably. She opened her mouth a couple of times, and then managed, "How … how'd you know?"

Wendy looked up at her, brows knitting slightly. "How'd I know what?"

"About … um, that is … I don't think that I ever … I mean, I never mentioned it, you know …"

"No, I don't know. What are you talking about?"

The mink's confusion deepened. "… What are _you_ talking about?"

"About my being bisexual. I thought you knew." And she reiterated, "What are _you_ talking about?"

"_You?_ You're … " Ellen's thoughts whirled madly. She took a deep breath and said, "Then I think you'll have to revise your estimate of the, uh, _'local' _ratio."

Wendy stared at her incredulously, a smile growing slowly to dominate her features.

"Really?"

Ellen nodded. "When I was in France, I … um, experimented. A little." She grinned. "It was … kinda fun."

"But … what about Rob?"

The mink shrugged. "Oh, sure. That was fun, too."

"Is that right? Well, well." _So! Those few-and-far-between hints you inadvertently dropped were on the money after all!_ She turned her eyes down to the paw she held, several ideas occurring to her simultaneously. "That's … very interesting…"

. . .

. . .

. . .


	10. Vignette: Karl and Alan

**_Vignette: Karl and Alan_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**Create in me a clean heart, O God;  
****And renew a right spirit within me.  
****Cast me not away from thy presence;  
****And take not thy Holy Spirit from me.  
****Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation;  
****And uphold me with thy free Spirit.**

_**-Psalm 51:10-12**_

##

_** Thursday 27 October 2016 – 7:20pm **_

Alan held the door for Karl as he entered, and then shut it behind them. Karl went to the reinforced seat beside the bookcase. Alan sat behind his desk.

He regarded the big wolverine silently for several long seconds. _He's tense. Quite tense. Almost as if he's expecting this. Of course, I __did__ set up the meeting._

Alan decided to get right to the point. "I had a talk with Mac."

Karl looked up at him with a frown. "You did, huh?"

"Mm-hmm."

"So, the little boy went crying to Teacher, did he?"

"No. He did not. Before you get your nose all out of joint for the wrong thing, I found out about your little episode of irresponsibility from another source."

"Irresponsibility!"

"I don't know what else you'd call it. Threatening your _AUTHOR_ isn't exactly the pinnacle of wisdom and good manners."

"And what do you mean by 'another source'?" Karl frowned at that. "What source? There wasn't anyone … I mean, how could …" His eyebrows climbed as he realized what Alan was talking about. "Do you mean that _McComb_ character called you?" He was practically sputtering. "Why's he talking to you? He's not even a believer!"

"In the first place, his belief or lack thereof is immaterial. That is between him and God. He's got a reasonably thorough grounding in most of the basics of the Faith, and if he chooses to go his own way, as a free moral agent, that's his decision. Not yours. Not mine. His."

"But …"

"But, nothing. In the second place, he's one of Mac's friends. Mac has a lot of friends. You may discover, to your detriment, just how many he _does_ have, if you persist in this foolishness."

"You've got a nerve! You weren't the one that … that …"

"Yes?"

"You didn't … almost lose someone you really … um, cared about," he finished lamely.

Alan gave his head a slight shake. "Look, brother, either you believe in Providence or you don't. You can't just go around expecting God to protect you and yours from all harm, thinking everything is going to be rosy all the time. It _does not __work__ that way_."

Karl didn't have anything to say to that.

"And in the third place, no, Mr. McComb did not call me. I finished my sermon preparations early and decided to get caught up on things on the web. I read about what you did myself. And may I say that I was ashamed of the way you behaved."

"Whoa! Wait just a nit-pickin' second! _You_ read _my_ parts of the script?"

"Yes."

"How'd you do that? You aren't supposed to be able to!"

The squirrel shrugged. "Mac reset my permissions several months ago. He thought it would be best if I could get the, um, _unabridged_ truth."

"So how come _you_ get the special access, and all _I_ get is grief?"

"That doesn't matter. Back to the subject: God may occasionally give someone special protection, assuming it fits in with His master plan. But he is not obligated to do so. Not in any way. This is a lost and dying world. It is full of sin and danger and hurt and death, and what you need to focus on is that God is the single stable rock in a limitless sea of doubt and pain. You must reflect on the fact that what He has in mind for you is for your _good_, not for your _convenience_."

"Oh, come on, that's not what I … I mean, that doesn't …"

"Look. If a piece of steel had feelings, it's doubtful that it would enjoy the quenching and tempering process. But without all that heat, it wouldn't make a very good tool. And it's the same with us. God will be there _with_ you through anything. But you have to rely on Him totally. If you need, and I mean _really_ need, for your mental or emotional or spiritual survival, something apart from God, something from this world, then you _do __not__ trust_ Him. That's as plain as I can make it." He sat back and tapped the desktop. "And the really sad part about this whole conversation is that I know you know that. We've been over this ground. And if I can remember it, I know good and well you can, too."

"But what if she'd _died_? I'd never see her again!"

"Nor will you ever see Phoebe again. Or Caleb. Or your mother. Or …"

"Stop it!"

Alan sat silently for a slow count of ten. Karl's breathing was getting ragged. "Karl, do you remember when you met Mrs. O'Musca?"

"… Of course."

"And Martin?"

"You know I do."

"How long had Martin, Senior, been dead?"

"Eight weeks. To the day."

"And were they complaining about the cards they'd been dealt?"

"That's hardly a fair comparison! They'll see him again!"

"Hmm." Alan paused a moment. "Okay. I suppose it's _not_ a case of apples-and-apples, because _they_ lost a lot _more_ than you would have."

The big wolverine looked like he'd taken a mattock to the solar plexus.

"Karl, life isn't fair."

"… I know that."

"And it's a good thing, too."

He frowned and blinked. Alan was changing course on him a little too quickly to follow. All Karl could manage was, "Huh?"

"I posit that if you think about it, you don't _want_ God to be 'fair'. A reasonable definition of 'fair' in our case would be if He just chucked this entire civilization into the trash and started over. Of course He loves us, and so He won't. But you want something even beyond that. You want Him, in every case, to decide in _your favor_."

Alan waited a moment to let Karl answer. When he didn't, the pastor continued, "As Ambrose Bierce so pithily put it in his book, prayer is asking that the laws of the universe be annulled for the supplicant, who freely acknowledges that he is unworthy of consideration. That is why selfish prayers do not get heard." He leaned forward. "What was your motivation for wanting her to live?"

"How can you ask that?"

"I can ask because you've been behaving like a spoiled child who dropped his lollipop and got it dirty and is looking around to find someone to blame."

"That's _low_, Alan."

"But oh, so accurate." He pulled out a thin sheaf of paper and started leafing through it. "I printed out the pertinent passages. You went ballistic on Mac because you blamed _him_ for putting Wendy in danger. You've been less-than-pleasant company to all the others who went through the same thing you did, because, my friend, you are afraid to take responsibility for your own actions."

"_What?"_

Alan slid one of the papers across so Karl could see it. "Look. Book Four, Chapter Five, Part A, half-way down. And I quote: _"I am not ready for those consequences. Not yet. It would feel like death. And I am not ready to die."_

Karl slumped back, a defeated look on his face.

"Now. Given this context, can you in any way defend what you said to Mac?"

Slowly, the big wolverine shook his head.

"How about how you acted with Mr. McComb?"

"No. That was … not good either." He looked back at Alan. "But you saw what he said! The way he said it! He …"

"Hold it. If you're going to start in about his spiritual credentials again, don't even think about it. That has precisely _squat_ to do with your reaction."

He slumped even more. "So what do I do?"

"I think you know that, too."

That statement drew a long sigh from the big fur. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"How long has it been since you _really_ had a conversation with your Lord and Savior? Since you experienced His joy? How long since you _honestly_ put it all in His paws?"

"… Well … "

"Honestly!"

"I guess … maybe … since before Martin was hurt."

"I thought as much. No wonder you don't have any peace." Alan got up, came around to the front of the desk, and knelt beside his friend. "You _cannot_ manage all this hurt and worry and anger alone. No one can. And I think it's time you turned all that over to Him. Don't you?"

Karl didn't say anything, but Alan could see his eyes filling and beginning to overflow.

"Let's get started …"

. . .

. . .

. . .


	11. Vignette: Media

**_Vignette: Media_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_The following list is a selection of feature-article headlines_**  
**_from papers around the country during the week_**  
**_beginning 23 October 2016._**

* * *

Reported in the Chicago _Tribune_

QUICK-THINKING DORMOUSE USES SKILLS TO REPEL ASSASSINS

* * *

Reported in the Atlanta _Journal-Constitution_

OUTLAWED HATE GROUP'S DEADLY SWAN SONG  
Knights of Pure Strain strike back at Attorney General

* * *

Reported in the St. Louis _Post-Dispatch_

HEROIC WOLF & MOUSE SAVE PARTY-GOERS

* * *

Reported in the Boise _Idahoan_

HATE GROUP BEHIND JENSEN KIDNAPPING RESPONSIBLE FOR ASSASSINATION  
Self-styled Knights have nation-wide links

* * *

Reported in the Annapolis _Gazette_

WAS SKUNK-WORKS OPS CHIEF REAL TARGET OF KILLERS?  
Team Coordinator Evans was in three separate attacks

* * *

Reported in the Miami _Herald_

HYBRIDS COME UNDER FIRE IN VERMONT

* * *

Reported in _The Scope_ (official organ of the North American Rifle Club)

SHARP-SHOOTER SAVES LIVES!  
Von Trapp cherishes Second-Amendment rights

* * *

Reported in the San Francisco _Daily Monitor_

UNREGISTERED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS USED IN DEADLY ASSAULT!  
State Senator Clavical calls for tougher gun laws


	12. Vignette: Conner and Lin

**_Vignette: Conner and Lin_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**He alone may chastise who loves.**

_**-Rabindranath Tagore**_

##

_** Saturday 29 October 2016 – 5:10pm **_

Conner had been moping in his campsite most of the day. Moping had, in fact, become his favorite pastime over the last couple of days.

He had used up Wednesday afternoon driving around the whole of western and central Vermont, spending the entire time fuming over Wendy's reaction to _his_ reaction to that damned flaming-faggot waiter. The whole blasted picture made no sense to him, and things that made no sense worried him. So _he_ worried _it_. Chewed on it. Tried to look at it from all angles. But the problem with _that_ approach was that he'd not used any angle but his own for so long, it was difficult to even imagine what things might look like from some other fur's viewpoint.

He passed Wednesday night in a tiny motel north of Brandon, and then lounged around in bed until late morning, thinking about what had happened. He went over and over the things he'd said, and the things she'd said (or rather, the things he'd heard) and came to the conclusion that either she simply hadn't understood his position, or she was being completely unreasonable. Or maybe both.

Feeling sadly wronged, and with nothing better to do, he visited a branch of the bank he did business with and checked his balances. They weren't too bad. Certainly, he could live through the winter on it, but he'd have to avoid any really major splurging. _Eh. Maybe it's time for another hunting trip. Lord knows I've got enough requests on hold right now. That female sure did take up a lot of my time!_

Early Thursday evening he made a few calls and lined up two trips to Canada in the next twenty days, one on either end of Hudson Bay. That would put him back into a very comfortable position, cash-wise. After wrapping up his business he drove back to camp.

Lin was absent. This was not a _really_ unusual occurrence, so he didn't give it any thought. But when he didn't see the giant wolf all day Friday, he began seriously to wonder whether something awful might have happened to him. They hadn't been separated for three days in a row since their first meeting, and he had bid farewell to Lin on Tuesday afternoon.

By Saturday afternoon his mood was bordering on panic. He felt some responsibility for his huge companion, and cursed himself repeatedly for ignoring Lin in favor of spending so much time with Wendy, especially now that she had given him the bum's rush. And now he was racking his brain, trying to think of some way to track him, some signal he could send out . . . . . . .

_[ [ hey, boss ] ] _

The immense relief Conner felt at that mental touch shocked him. His knees went weak, and he almost stumbled as he whipped around to face Lin.

But Lin was not alone.

The dire wolf sat on his haunches at the edge of the campsite, and sitting beside him was a large fox. Instantly, Conner was struck with the creature's bearing. The fox held himself tall and aloof, almost as if he were a member of the peerage, or whatever passed for it among the ferals.

_**[ [ Lin, thank goodness, I was so worried! Where have you been? ] ]**_

There was a definite cast of sadness in Lin's eyes as he answered, and more than a hint of regret in his sending_. [ [ been learning things, boss ] ]_

Lin's manner, even more than his meaning, sent Conner a warning, and his reply was very cautious_**. [ [ What sorts of things? ] ]**_

Lin shuffled his front feet uncomfortably and looked over at the fox.

_**[ [ And who's your friend? ] ]**_

_[ [ not friend exactly ] ]_

_**[ [ Okay. But who is he? ] ]**_

_[ [ he … he wants to speak with you ] ]_

The fox had been staring at Conner since he first sighted him. And Conner felt something … different now. The images were coming to him through Lin, but he knew they weren't Lin's thoughts. They didn't feel the same.

_[ [ young one, do you hunt? ] ]_

Conner nodded slowly.

___[ [ _and when you hunt, do you hate your prey?_ ] ]_

That was a surprising question. But Conner immediately felt compelled to answer him, succinctly and truthfully. _**[ [ No, I don't. Why would I? ] ]**_

_[ [ _nor do i_ ] ]_

Conner waited. He knew there was more.

_[ [ _i hunt the rabbit and the mouse and the vole and the squirrel - this large young one here hunts the deer and the wild pig and the elk - we run free and we hunt - the prey runs free and it flees - but we hunt because we must, and they run because they must - we do not hate them, though we must slay them - they do not hate us, though they fear us with a mighty terror - we are who we are_ ] ]_

The fox paused, giving Conner an expectant look.

_[ [ _do you see the sameness, young one?_ ] ]_

_**[ [ I … that is … well … No, not really. What is it that you're trying to tell me? ] ]**_

_[ [ _when we struggle against they-who-hate, we do so reluctantly - they taste bad_ ] ]_

_**[ [ I don't understand! ] ]**_

_[ [ _it is plain that you do not - when we struggle, sometimes we must touch their minds_ ] ]_

_**[ [ Oh. Okay. So what? ] ]**_

_[ [ _they taste bad - their thoughts are corrupted and diseased - it is like dipping your nose into a pool filled with rancid oil and black and bloated corpses_ ] ]_

Conner actually recoiled from the image the fox presented him.

_[ [ _we did it because it had to be done - they could not be allowed to remain_ ] ]_

_**[ [ Oh. I see. ] ] **_ He waited, not knowing what else to say.

Lin entered the conversation again. _[ [ __ sorry, boss, but when you came back smelling like that, i didn't know what else to do__ ] ]_ He sounded truly distressed.

_**[ [ Smelling like what? What are you talking about? ] ]**_

_[ [ _you smell like the bloodsuckers_ ] ]_

Conner's legs did fail him then. He sat down, hard, on the bare earth**. _[ [ _**_**What are … why did … but … how is that possible? ] ]**_

_[ [ _you hold hate in your heart - it changes the way you taste - he wanted you to know - i agreed to help him_ ] ]_ He motioned to Lin with his head, and when the fox got up to leave, the dire wolf followed.

_**[ [ Wait! Please! You can't leave! Lin, don't go! ] ]**_

The big lupine seemed to wince. _[ [ not so loud, boss, it makes it worse ] ]_

_[ [ _he must leave - he cannot stay with you while you dwell in hate - if you can release the hate, he may return - but now he must go_ ] ]_

_[ [ _you see, boss? see how he explains it a lot better than i can?_ ] ]_ His tone was pleading, begging his friend to sympathize.

Conner spoke then, one whispered word: "Lin?"

The big creature was whining deep in his chest._[ [ _i'm sorry, boss! i'm so sorry!_ ] ]_

The two ferals quickly slipped into the long shadows of dusk, leaving Conner sitting there, tears running down his muzzle.

. . .

. . .

. . .


	13. Vignette: Cinnamon

**_Vignette: Cinnamon_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**What is life?  
It is the flash of a firefly in the night.  
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.  
It is the little shadow which runs across the grass  
and loses itself in the sunset.  
**_**-Crowfoot**_

##

_** Saturday 29 October 2016 – 6:15pm **_

A cold wind fell out of the darkling, late-autumn sky, rushing down the sides of the little valley and bumping into the house with a start. It whistled a low, intermittent tune as it poked through the blackened remains of the kitchen, but hastily-erected sheets of plywood kept it from using the shattered windows as a means of exploring the main house. Frustrated, it made its way on past, pausing briefly to play with the flapping strands of yellow-and-black 'Crime Scene' tape before scooting on down the gorge, to disappear in the east.

Cinnamon sat, cross-legged, on the ground at the edge of the patio. She had arrived back at her place the previous evening, emotionally and physically exhausted from the trip to Montana, and had fallen into a dead sleep almost as soon as she made it to her room. But the night's rest hadn't seemed to help much. This morning she'd pulled herself out of bed two hours after dawn, called the Grey's to check on Emily, who was apparently doing a good bit better than she was, and had left immediately for Dows Crossing, _sans_ breakfast.

The 'lodge' hadn't been that difficult to build. It stood about a meter high, a modified tipi sort of affair. It sheltered a small tripod of saplings that, in turn, supported the bag containing one of Michael's locks of headfur. She was supposed to take the other one to the place where Michael had actually died, but she had yet to figure out how to get such an unsanitary object into the ICU. Maybe she could stow it on the hospital grounds? Some secluded nook, perhaps?

She'd spent a couple of hours, after getting the lodge set up, going through the house, cataloging those items that would need to be placed in storage until they could be sold. Michael, ever the careful, methodical lawyer, had redrafted his will only the week before, and named Cinnamon as executrix. She'd laughed about it when he'd mentioned it to her. Today, her wooden countenance didn't look as if it would suffer a laugh with any dignity. The deepest cut, over her eye, was still stiff, and itched now and then. She knew it would leave a permanent scar, but she couldn't drum up much will to care about it.

The late afternoon had been spent right there where she now sat. She had talked to Michael, talked to God, talked to herself. Argued with herself a little. Fussed at Michael a little more. But today, just now, she was all cried out. She felt empty in a way she hadn't for a long time. Not since her parents had disowned her had she felt as betrayed and alone as she had the past few days, but today she was working her way into the next stage of the grieving process. She knew that, could track her progress, could almost quantify it. She'd studied it in a 'Death and Dying' class in college. She just never had imagined that she'd be putting the knowledge to use in quite this fashion.

Her sorrow had localized, congealed, solidified. She didn't doubt that she'd be able to deal with it in time, but the pain was a very real thing to her now, a tightness within she could nearly touch. This was something else she'd have to share very carefully with her daughter. She sighed and closed her eyes at the thought. _Not yet. Not soon._

She noted idly that the sun was disappearing. The light had been long and wan for some time, glancing off one's fur without warming anything. She stood, stretched, and walked back to her car. It would be Emily's bedtime by the time she made it back to New Haven, and she did want to give her little girl a good-night kiss. She clung to that thought as she drove. She had her daughter, she had her life, and she had the will to keep them together and make something of it.

. . .

. . .

. . .


	14. Vignette: Emily

**_Vignette: Emily_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**Life is mostly froth and bubble,  
****Two things stand like stone:  
****Kindness in another's trouble,  
****Courage in your own.**

_**-Adam Lindsay Gordon**_

##

_** Monday 31 October 2016 – 11:40am **_

Lee got out of the car and trotted around to the passenger-side rear door. Cinnamon had already leaned over and opened it, and the two of them helped Emily out.

She balanced there on her good leg, leaning against the car, and then held out her paw to her mother, palm up. "I need my twutch, Mommy."

Cinnamon passed her daughter the tiny child-sized crutch they had gotten at the hospital. With silent determination, Emily carefully positioned the crutch opposite her wounded leg, and began making her slow, halting way up the flagstone walk to the house. Lee had offered his services as 'personal beast of burden', but the little squirrelette had insisted on walking in under her own power. As he and Cinnamon monitored her painful progress, he couldn't help but feel a measure of admiration for her.

"She's got more spirit than most of the adults I know."

"Yep," agreed her mother. "She's a scrapper."

They followed at a respectful distance. Any victories Emily could claim for herself would help her in dealing with what had happened. She would be experiencing pain for several more days. The bullet had nicked her femur on its way through, leaving a very impressive bruise covering her entire thigh, but the long-term prognosis was that she'd regain full use of her leg. The doctors had stressed that her attitude would have a major bearing on what defined 'long-term'. And no one who knew the plucky little girl personally had any worries about her attitude.

Debbye came out onto the porch and watched as Emily got to the stairs. There were only three of them, but they posed a considerable challenge to someone of her abbreviated stature. She stopped and studied them for a few seconds.

"Do you want some help up the stairs, Emily?"

She cocked her head right, then left, then said, "No, fank you." She lifted her crutch to Debbye, who took it and waited. Then Emily sat on the lowest step, swung her leg up beside her, rose to kneel on her good knee, levered herself up to the next step with her elbow, and repeated the process until she sat on the porch beside Debbye.

Cinnamon beamed at her. "That was great, honey!"

"Fanks, Mommy." She looked up at Debbye. "Tan I have my twutch back?"

"Here ya go, kid."

Emily laboriously got back on her feet, biting her lip at the pains it caused. But she made it, and went on into the house. Debbye held the door for her.

Lee noted the tears soaking into the fur on Cinnamon's cheek, and gave her shoulder a little squeeze. "She'll make it. She's got a lot of guts for such a small package."

"I know." She sniffed, and added, "Thanks again for letting us stay here. I just couldn't … couldn't go back home yet."

"Hey, we're glad to have you! Lord knows we have the room, and frankly you two need a quiet place somewhere to decompress." He chuckled dryly. "Although I don't know how much actual quiet you'll _get_ with Linda and George tearing around the house."

"I think it will do Emily some good. She doesn't have that many friends. She's got one close one, Janie, but there really aren't any others around who are near to her in age."

Debbye had passed Emily off to her mother and come down the walk to where they stood. The two squirrelettes hugged, and Debbye steered her friend toward the house. "Come on in. Mom brought a peach cobbler and I think it has your name on it."

Cinnamon wiped her eyes with the back of one paw and leaned on her friend. "That sounds wonderful. Been a long time since I had a peach cobbler."

. . .

. . .

. . .


	15. Vignette: Wendy and Ellen

**_Vignette: Wendy and Ellen_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**The single most exciting thing you  
encounter in government is competence,  
because it's so rare.  
**_**-Daniel P. Moynihan**_

##

_** Tuesday 1 November 2016 – 2:45pm **_

Ellen scooted in and quickly shut the outer door behind her, pressing it closed against the stiff, wet wind. Shivering violently, she shed her overcoat, heavy with rainwater, and then huddled over the heating grate for several minutes to allow a measure of warmth to seep back into her frame, thankful for the powerful propane-driven furnace. When she felt more like a fur and less like a side of beef in a meat locker, she continued on down to the kitchen.

Wendy had four or five items in various stages of preparation, and sighed with relief when she spotted the mink. "Girlfriend, you are a sight for sore eyes! Mind that smaller stock pot for me, wouldja? The sauce keeps trying to burn."

"Sure thing." Ellen went over and took her station at the stove. She basked in the welcome heat coming off the gas burners.

Wendy finished up two of her tasks and turned her attention to the marinade she was putting together. She got a couple more ingredients out of the pantry and came back to the table. Arranging her various herbs and spices, she cocked an eye at the younger femme and commented, "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Sorry. I got held up at the store. Everyfur in the county must be stocking up for that storm they say is comin' in this weekend. Then I was trying to make up the time, and I ran off the road a couple of curves from here."

_"Ran off the road ? !"_

"Nothin' serious, boss-lady, don't wad. I stuck it in the ditch just south of the property line. Didn't bust anything, but I couldn't back it out."

"I'll call somebody and have it pulled out." She stopped and looked at the mink again. "You mean you _walked_ here from the property line?"

"Ay-yep. Little better than a klick, I make it."

"It's five below out there! You must be frozen stiff!"

"No argument there. I was about ready to crawl into the stove when I first got here."

"No wonder you're standing so close to the range."

Ellen remembered something and reached into a pocket. "I stopped by the 'PO' before I went to the store. You've got something official-looking from Audra Springer."

Wendy gave her a blank look. "Who?"

"She's one of the Addison County State Senators. Her house is a few doors down from my Mom's in Vergennes." She held the letter out to Wendy, who walked over and took it with a very puzzled expression.

Wendy read the return address. "Huh. It's from her campaign office. Is this an election year? I haven't heard any mud being slung lately."

"Nope. Franklin Stoat's up for re-election next year, along with half the Representatives, and Spring's term is up two years after that."

Wendy favored her with half a smile. "Up on your local politics, I see."

The mink shrugged. "My Mom stumps for the Libertarian Party. I get inundated with information that I'm not really interested in."

"Is Ms. Springer a Libertarian?"

"Nah. She's Green. Real – um – _intense_ about it, too. Did some tree-sitting in Oregon when she was in college."

"Huh. We didn't have a Green Party in Pennsylvania. Just the regular three. Four, if you count the Neo-Wobblies, but they never got more than about one percent of the vote." She tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet it contained.

"She want your money?"

Wendy read for several seconds, her eyebrows lifting slowly all the while. "Uhhhh … Huh! … Well, what do you know about that?"

"What?"

"Looky here!" She passed the letter to Ellen, who quickly scanned it.

"Well, I'll be damned!" She looked up at the grinning vixen. "That'll put your name on the map."

"Yup. You gotta know there will be some important types at a party like that!"

"And she picked you just on the strength of Mom's recommendation?"

"Looks like it." Wendy took the letter back and re-read it. "Of course it does say, 'contingent upon submittal of a proposal for a suitable menu for the evening'. Heh. She a lawyer?"

Ellen nodded as she stirred the sauce. "She's half of a practice there in town. Why do you ask?"

"Just the way she writes. I'd have bet money she was a lawyer." Wendy folded the letter and stuck it into the pocket of her 'mobius' apron as she moved back to the table. She took some fresh tarragon and began tearing the leaves into tiny strips, dropping them into the blush wine that made the base of the marinade. She was silent for a few minutes, then asked, "I wonder if that _was_ the only reason."

"Excuse me?"

"There must be lots of other caterers closer to her place. She's likely used some of them before. Why would she go out on a limb with someone different? Especially, why someone whose food she's never tasted?"

Ellen gave her a baffled shrug. "What other reason could she have? She and Mom are old friends, even if they do vote for different parties. Maybe she trusts Mom's judgment. And for that matter, you don't know that she's never tasted your cooking. You've got half the county addicted to those American crisps, y'know."

"**Ahhh!**" Wendy's head jerked up in agitation. "_That's_ what I was forgetting! I owe Ms. Tabb another three hundred of those things! And I piddled around all morning with nit-picky shit! Dammit!"

Ellen glanced at the clock and made a _tsk_ noise. "Guess you better get crackin', then."

The older femme hurried to the pantry, mumbling darkly about her faulty memory. Ellen grinned at her friend and employer, unobtrusively watching and admiring the sway of the vixen's hips as Wendy reached for the container of oatmeal on the top shelf.

. . .

. . .

. . .


	16. Vignette: Red and Cheetaur

**_Vignette: Red and Cheetaur_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**You can discover more about a person in an hour of play  
****than in a year of discussion.**

_**-Plato**_

##

_** Wednesday 2 November 2016 – 10:35am **_

Red Raines was out in the main tool shop when his ears twitched around and picked up the sound of a heavy diesel engine turning into his driveway. Adrenaline flooded his system and gave his stomach a quick flop, his eyes dilated, and his heart rate climbed alarmingly. He turned off the tig welder, dropped his helmet onto the bench, and ran out to the yard, where the sight of the big Cheetah-Paw bus made him want to throw his arms up and sing! He raced over to the turn-around in front of his house to wait until it stopped.

Cheetaur didn't even wait that long. She was hanging out of the big side door and jumped to the ground, all four paws working, and she and Red were locked in a fierce hug before the air brakes stopped squealing. He inclined his head downward slightly, bringing their lips together, and she returned the kiss with interest. It was a while before the rest of the world swam back into focus. He gazed at her, drinking in the details of her unique and beautiful fur pattern, the jaunty look in her deep green eyes, and that perfect smile.

"Girl, you can't know how much I've missed you!"

"Wrong! Because _**I**_ missed _**you**_ more!" She kissed him again, locking both paws into the long fur on his back.

Red's headed swiveled around when the bus engine started up. He tracked the vehicle's progress for a few seconds, then gave Cheetaur a quizzical look. "They leavin'?"

She smirked briefly, running one finger along his muzzle and down his neck. "Technically, we're a day early. I told them to come back in the morning."

"In … in the morning?"

"Mm-hmm."

He held her where he could see her glorious face, a smile growing across his own. "And just what did you have in mind to pass the hours while we wait for 'em, little lady?"

She gave him a coy smile of her own. "I got the impression that you could figure that out without any help."

"Ayah. Idea or three might come t' mind."

"There's just one condition, though…" She released him and stepped back.

He frowned. "Condition? And what might that be?"

"You've gotta catch me first." And she took off for the trees at a lope. Red whooped and ran, hot on the heels of his dream-girl.

. . .

. . .

. . .

* * *

**Author's Note: **

**Hello, Gentle Reader. Now, having had several glimpses into the lives and minds of Our Cast, we are going to pause for reflection. These sixteen Vignettes comprise the first "Chapter" of Book 5. There are six Chapters left in Book 5, and four more Books after that. We are about to embark on the third major story arc, wherein Wendy discovers a great deal about her feelings, Karl attempts to come to terms with his, and her ex-husband becomes a lot more than just a bad memory.**

**There are now four completed Books in the "Gone Wylde" saga published here on FFnet. With the recent Vignettes, they contain in excess of 330,000 words. And the story thus far has garnered a total of three reviews. Books 3 and 4 didn't get a single mention.**

**As you must have deduced by now, I am not one to go begging for reviews. I have an essay on my profile that outlines my approach to Reader Commentary, and I do believe I am one of the more easy-going authors on this site where such is concerned. That being said, I must express my frustration here. I know there are people reading this story. The Hit Counter doesn't lie. But one review for every 110,000 words is lean by anyone's standards.**

**Therefore, I am now instituting a hiatus. I will begin posting again as soon as ONE person leaves a reasonably thoughtful review. Honestly, I don't think that's too much to ask. It can even be anonymous. For comparison, on the site where this story was first published (The Raccoon's Bookshelf) I had forty PAGES of reviews at this point. Please, Gentle Reader, don't be so shy.**

**So. The postings will pick up again when the story receives a review. See you then.**


	17. Chapter 2  Undercurrents  Part A

**_Chapter Two – Undercurrents – Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**Television is the first truly democratic culture –  
****the first culture available to everybody  
****and entirely governed by what the people want.  
****The most terrifying thing is what people ****do**** want.**

_**-Clive Barnes**_

##

The waxing crescent moon peeked out from behind scudding clouds, bringing a sometime glow to the intermittent clearings in the forest, places where the white covering lay thickly, new powder from the blizzard that had blown through during the day. The storm's remnants swirled gently as they fell through the dark forest's silent limbs, some of the cold, soft flakes landing on branches or sticking to the needles of the deep green conifers, most of the rest reaching the ground to pile up against roots or rocky outcroppings. Some, though, fell into the hot updraft of a guttering fire, dying in a sizzle of vapor without ever touching anything.

A naked wolf hunkered low beside this fire, feeding it with dry twigs, cedar tips, and pine knots. His long, black fur gave mute testimony to the stresses of his journey: filthy and snarled, and, in a few places, scarred bald from abrasion against bark or stone. Clumps of dried mud caked his legs to above the knee. His footpads, though hard as wood, had suffered as well, and he left a red spot every time he put his right foot down. But none of this mattered to him. None of it even registered on his senses. Unblinking, he stared into the fire, mouthing incoherent words, repeating the unfamiliar syllables through limp, drooling flews. The glowing red-rimmed eyes never moved. A single dead-white spot on his forehead, a perfectly round patch some three or four centimeters across that had grown in over a burn scar, interrupted the unremitting black of his fur. It seemed to reflect the firelight with more than normal vigor.

The flames grew and waned, rose and fell in a steady rhythm, matching his measured breathing as he squatted there, sending his incantation into the night . . . . . . .

##

_** Thursday 03 November 2016, 6:50am **_

_. . . . . . . Wendy nearly reached the peak … teetered there for a brief, delicious moment … let herself slide back …_

… _Again. _

… _And again._

_She paused, pulled away, turned around and pushed him over onto his back, got on top and found a good position. Throwing her head back, she licked her muzzle as she hit her groove once more._

_**Oh, yeah! **_

_**Right … like … that.**_

_The wolverine's breath was getting ragged. She could tell he was close._

_She tightened her grip on the long, brown-black fur of his chest. __**More! Oh, please! More!**_

_The heavy four-poster bed rattled as it slowly, rhythmically scooted out of its position against the wall._

_She looked down at her lover, looked into his eyes … looked … looked __through__ his eyes? His mouth stretched into an unnaturally wide grin, showing more teeth – __many__ more – than nature had gifted him with. _

**_What the fu … ?_**

_She shrieked as the black, oily smoke rolled out from under him; screamed as she tried to climb off him, only to find immense, owl-like talons clamped onto her thighs, holding her fast; sobbed in terror when the eyes got bigger, grew luminous and yellow and very, very hungry, filling her vision completely . . . . . . ._

"Wendy!"

The vixen awoke with a jerk and a quavery gasp, sitting up abruptly in the bed.

"Wendy? You okay? That musta been some dream."

"Huh?"

Ellen winced as she massaged her snout. "You got me across the face. Arm or paw or something." She chuckled ruefully. "I bet you wanted to wake _me_ up so I could wake _you_ up."

Wendy used a knuckle to rub the sleep out of her eyes. "Yeah. … Dream. … Right."

"You okay?"

"That dream … that was … was … Ellen … that dream _sucked_!"

"That's what I figured. So. Are You Okay?"

"… Uh … yeah. I guess." She blinked and looked around the room. No roiling, smoky tendrils of black vapor. No all-encompassing yellow eyes. "Crazy nightmares." She eased back under the covers, pulling them up to her chin and curling into a tight ball. It was chilly in her chamber.

Ellen reached over under the blanket and gripped Wendy's paw with hers. " 't's okay. I'm here if y'need to talk."

Wendy shuddered. "Nothing in that dream I feel like talking about."

"Okay. I've had dreams like that, too." She repositioned her head on the long, mutual pillow they were using, putting her snout a couple of centimeters from the vixen's. "It'll pass. You probably ought to get up and start moving around. Don't give the dream anything to latch onto, y'know?"

That elicited a decisive nod from her bedmate. "You're right. We've got a busy day ahead, what with Cheetaur coming in. We might as well get started on it."

"That's the spirit!" Ellen licked the tip of Wendy's muzzle, then winked at her, grinned, and said, "Dibs on the hot water!" before leaping out of bed and toward the bathroom.

"Gimme thirty seconds, kid, and I'll join you."

Ellen's voice echoed back in from across the Servants' Walk, "Join me? Why? Am I coming ap…"

"Aghh! No! Stop! Don't! No puns! Too early in the day for puns, 'specially ones that old." She pushed the covers aside to reveal her unclad form, and executed a slow and elaborate stretch, for which there was, regrettably, no audience. She was feeling much better already. "As Quinn puts it, 'that ol' dog won't hunt no more'."

"Ugh. You can give the non-standard English a rest, too, if you don't mind."

"I didn't come up with it, I just report the facts." She slid off the bed and headed for the door, shivering a little.

"Well report yourself on in here. I need my back scrubbed."

"Don't get uppity with _me_, you young whippersnapper!" Wendy affected an old, cracked voice as she padded into the bathroom. "Why I remember back in ought-three …"

Ellen's exaggerated groan cut short the vixen's act.

##

_** 9:30am **_

New York City, to put it mildly, bears little resemblance to rural Vermont. To be sure, though, each may be appreciated for its own brand of charm. The tranquility and natural beauty of the rolling hills that spread across the central third of that New England state is not something one can experience among the Big Apple's smog, traffic, and teeming millions. But then neither can one find three score good restaurants, covering a dozen ethnicities, within easy walking distance of downtown New Haven. Ditto for art museums, haute couture, and elegant little shops selling elegant little home décor items for extravagantly elegant prices. Deciding which scenario is better boils down to a matter of taste.

Wendy didn't miss the big-city traffic. Pittsburgh wasn't New York, but a city of nearly four million that was designed and laid out for a tenth of that carried its own challenges. She couldn't say really that she missed dining out. Oh, it had its upside, with the right meal-time companion, but she'd rarely eaten anywhere that she found the food superior to what she could whip up at home. Truth be known, dance clubs were more her speed. And the lack of any sort of 'hopping' night-life anywhere near Ash Creek was beginning to wear on her. She'd made it over to Montpelier and up to Burlington a few times, but it wasn't the same. These stuffy Vermonters never really cut loose and let their headfur down. Not around her at least. So when she finally caught sight of the video crew's convoy turning into the drive, she may be pardoned her short yip of joyful anticipation at the excitement the day promised.

No fewer than five big vehicles (three SUV's and two utility vans) preceded Cheetaur's bus into the drive-around. They parked in a knot near the porch, and spilled their passengers out every door. Some of them immediately began pulling out video equipment and carrying it to the house. Even before the slinky 'taur cheetah emerged from her bus, they had the porch stacked.

Cheetaur spotted Wendy and waved, smiling, as she walked toward the house. "It's good to see you again, Ms. Wylde."

"Thanks! You, too. And please, call me Wendy."

"Okay. For that matter, most of these jokers call me 'Cheets'. You can, too, if you want." Cheetaur came up on the porch. She held a ThinkPad in one paw and shook Wendy's paw with her other one. "We've got a tight schedule, got T'Mera Manes and Geoff Lyons coming in this evening, and all the inside shots in the next couple of days, but we'll try not to disturb the routine too much."

One of the crew, a tall fox with brown fur, sidled up next to Wendy. Giving her a thorough visual once-over, he remarked, "Don't know about you, Cheets, but I'm disturbed already." He grinned widely when Wendy cocked an eye at him. "Name's Morrie Todd. Mind if I call you 'Wendy', too?"

Cheetaur popped him on the head with her ThinkPad. "Down, boy! No fishing in the client's pond. At least not until after we wrap."

Wendy studied the fox for several seconds. "You remind me a little of a guy I dated right after college."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

She shrugged. "It's just a thing." She turned back to the taur, effectively dismissing him. Cheetaur waved him off, and he returned to setting up the equipment.

"Sorry about that, Wendy. He's a good sound editor, but awfully 'fast' around femmes. His relationships kinda have a tendency to crumble."

"No sweat. Hey, listen, do you need to start, like right now, or do you have time for a cup of coffee first? I've got some Kona and some Guatemalan Antigua."

Cheetaur's eyes lit up. "Now you're talkin'! Sure, it'll take these guys a good half hour to get set up. Lead the way!"

Wendy held the door for her large guest and walked beside her down the Main Hall. "So do you actually _know_ T'Mera Manes? …"

##

Rufus Traynor spotted a scurrying figure as she whisked by his cubical, and he wheeled his chair out to the aisle. "Hey, Doralee, got a minute?"

The slight red squirrel femme came to an abrupt stop and turned to her coworker with a grin. "Better make it fast Rufe. The video gods are in the middle of a heap-big powwow, and Mr. Turnaud himself is waiting on this file." She waved a tiny datacube under his nose.

The hare looked askance at the storage device. "A DC? And you're _carrying_ it? To Charles Turnaud? Why doesn't he just call up what he wants on the screen in the conference room? Thought he was supposed to be the living embodiment of all that is right and good in technology. That's his rep anyway."

She snickered at his characterization of their CEO. "He's using pad-ware because he's having the comm systems upgraded on the thirty-first and thirty-second floors, and they won't have a line to the LAN in the conference room until tomorrow. And let me tell you, it hasn't helped his temper one bit!" She tossed the cube to her other paw. "So what's on your mind? In three sentences or less."

"Just three sentences? Is that all I get?"

She chinked her mouth to one side. "And that's two of 'em."

He frowned slightly. "Steve came by this morning and informed me that it was 'that time of year again' and asked me to find somebody to head up the United Way campaign, and so naturally I thought of you since you did it three years ago and …"

Doralee's eyes widened considerably as she quickly backed away from Rufus' cubical. "Aiii! No! Get somebody else!" And she turned and fairly scampered toward the elevators.

"Aw, nuts."

##

Doralee stopped at the large, mahogany double-door and listened for a few seconds before pushing on in. It wouldn't do to disturb the meeting while Mr. Turnaud was speaking, but the voice droning at that moment belonged to one of his functionaries, a civet she knew only by sight.

"… so with the third quarter numbers in that demographic trending down by six-tenths of a percent, we directed Marketing to pull together a focus group of eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-olds so we could beta the December line-up with …"

Another attendee, a raccoon femme that Doralee did _not_ like at all, interrupted. "Six-tenths is not statistically significant! If you'd read my memo, you would have seen …"

"Stow it!" Charles Turnaud, an imposing badger with an unruly shock of white headfur, brought the bickering to a halt. "I don't give a rat's ass about your statistics, Eve. I'm not lookin' for little spider-shit incremental change." He pointed a blunt finger at the civet. "And you! I told you last week, Boyd, speciesism is what's hot right now. Our audience has been plane-crashed and feral-attacked and practical-joked to death! They turn on FurNet and what do they see? The same thing they saw last year, that's what!" He pounded the table for effect. "Dammit, give me something retro, something the fur on the street can identify with!"

It was then that he noticed Doralee. "Scurrey! You got that file?"

She hurried over and passed him the cube. He took it and slammed it home into its cradle beside his monitor. Shortly each of the fifteen furs in the room could read the same file on his or her own screen.

"There! You see? You _see_? That's what I'm talkin' about! Buncha purist nutcases attack the State Attorney General – the _Attorney General_, mind you – and this kid holds 'em off with a cannon he whips up outta junk in the garage! _That's_ what everyfur wants to see! Not drunks, not wackos. Heroes! We need to give the people some heroes for a change!" He leaned forward, knuckles cracking on the desk, and drilled his gaze into the civet. "Boyd, you get that kid on board! I want him in our studio yesterday!" And with that fiat pronouncement, Charles Turnaud turned and sailed majestically out of the room.

Doralee had followed him (at a safe distance) and had just made it into the hall when she heard her name being called. She glanced back and saw the civet (_Boyd? Was that his name?_) advancing on her. She stopped and leaned against the wall as he trotted up to face her.

"Ms. Scurrey, right?"

"That's right. Have we been introduced?"

"No. But I make it a point to know all of Mr. Turnaud's staff." He stuck out a paw. "I'm Boyd Viverridae."

She took the paw and gave it one brief shake, letting go quickly. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I understand that you have some relatives in the area where Mr. O'Musca resides."

She crossed her arms. "Really?" One eyebrow started creeping up her forehead. "And would you mind telling me just how the hell you came by _that_ piece of information?"

"Look, what Mr. Turnaud asked me in there was nothing new. I _tried_ to contact that damned dormouse a week ago, but couldn't get ten syllables out before he slammed the phone down in my ear. I tried leaving messages in his mailbox. I tried to get a face-to-face meeting, but his mother ran me off with a garden rake. The next time I went back, she had a deputy waiting with a restraining order! But then it turns out the order wasn't for me. Somefur from FNN had made a real nuisance of himself. Even went so far as to try a little creative breaking-and-entering. After that I dug around some and found out that no fewer than five media outlets were aiming to get an interview with Martin O'Musca. And not a one had so much as made a dent in their armor. So I took a different tack. I had a search done of the family trees of all the people he had ties with. _His_ family's no good for that because they're all from Ireland. But I hit paydirt last night: the guy who preaches at his church is related to you."

"Izzat right?"

"Yes."

"So? This means what to me?"

"I need for you to get me an angle with this kid."

She frowned. "What's the preacher's name?"

"Alan Grey. Actually it's his wife you're related to. She's a first cousin of yours."

"All right, then, what's _her_ name?"

"Sandee Louise Scurrey Grey."

Doralee started. "Sandee? _Sandee?_ Randy-Sandee married a _preacher__?_"

Boyd could sense an opening. "There any reason that should surprise you?"

"Heh! The original wild child, a preacher's wife! That's rich!"

"I guess you _do_ know her, then."

"Know her! I went to middle school and high school with her! And believe me, she drove her parents absolutely _nuts_!" Doralee's smirk grew into a wide grin. "We were the Tri-County High Eagles. Our school colors were red and gold. Our rivals across town were the Vallier Valley Vikings, and their colors were purple and white. Her boyfriend went to Vallier, and played on the varsity basketball team. One night, her 'n' her boyfriend managed somehow to get purple dye into the fire protection water system, and then set a pile of trash on fire in the gym." She laughed out loud, gazing into a past she'd not visited in a long time. "The principal was livid. I think if he'd ever found out who'd done it, he'd have had 'em publicly flogged. The school tried a lot of different fixes, but they ended up having to get the floor re-surfaced. Heh!" She stroked her muzzle as the memories came faster. "She's the one who taught me to drink bourbon through my nose. She's the one that convinced me to dye our tails green and get that shamrock clip-job on St. Patrick's Day back in '95. She had just about everything pierced that could _be_ pierced. Her folks _hated_ that! Probably why she did it." Doralee grinned as she reminisced. "Hell, she even tried to get me to run away from home with her the summer before our senior year."

Boyd, whose mouth had been dropping for the last few sentences, drew back a little in visible shock. "She ran away from home?"

"Sure did. No idea where she went, or even if she finished high school. After graduation I came to SUNY to study drama and production, fell in love with city life, and stayed. But I never heard from her again." She chuckled to herself. "A preacher! This I gotta see."

"Do you think she'd talk to you? I've got her home number."

"I dunno. It's been, what, twenty years? Twenty-one?"

"You're the best lead I've got right now. And if I don't deliver that kid pronto, my head's gonna be decorating the flagpole in the atrium."

"Well, let's look at it from my side." Her left paw absently fiddled with her whiskers. "What's in it for me?"

"Umm … How about a byline?"

"No dice. I'm not interested in that end of the business anymore."

"Well, what _would_ it take to get you to talk to her?"

She pursed her lips. "If you dug into my background, you probably know about my creep of a husband."

"Well…" He wasn't too sure how much knowledge he should reveal. "I know you're in the middle of a messy divorce. You got the goods on him, but for some reason it's dragging out. What about it?"

"Lloyd has a better lawyer than I do. A _lot_ better. You got any lawyers that owe you favors?"

"So happens I do." He pulled out his PA. "What flavor you need?"

"The less squeamish, the better."

"Ha! I've got a long list of those. Is that all you need?"

"What I need is the house and a third of his income. That sorry sack of shit cheated on me in our own bedroom. Even gave the slut my clothes! But he makes three times what I do, and he's hired a real slick lawyer, one of the principals in the firm of Sarcaphilus, Verrid & Sarcaphilus."

"Yeah, I know 'em. Nasty bunch. Didn't they represent the accountant that worked for the Pampas mob last year? That case where the two main witnesses changed their stories, and then disappeared after the trial?"

"That's them. I'd call him a slimewad, except that would be a put-down to wads of slime everywhere. That Devil's got Morris & Applegate worn down to the point that I might not even get any alimony." She leaned back against the wall. "That's what I want. I want Lloyd humiliated. The worse pummeling he takes, the happier I'll be."

"Well, if that's all, I don't see it as being a major problem. Hell, that's not even illegal."

"Illegal?"

"Yeah. Thought you might want a hitfur or something."

"Nah. I don't want Lloyd dead. Yet. He needs to suffer first."

"You got it. I'll have just the fur give you a buzz this afternoon. How's that?"

"I'll make the call. Gimme her number."

##


	18. Chapter 2 Undercurrents Part B

**_Chapter Two – Undercurrents – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_**__ Thursday 03 November 2016 – __elsewhere **_

The old panda sat alone, eyes closed, head resting lightly against the hard stone. A single brazier offered dim illumination to the small grotto, its smoky flame doing little to resist the frost carried on the winds of early winter. But then, in the Himalayas the cold season came soon and lingered long. The sun had set not an hour before, and a wealth of stars glowed in the dark, abbreviated arc overhead. The night breezes fluttered the old fur's robe, lifting and mussing his sparse and ragged pelt, but he didn't care. Deep in meditation, Wu Peng's entire psyche was focused on one thing: a summons. He had been thus occupied since midday.

A disturbance in the aether rocked him slightly, and he allowed himself a brief smile. _The youngling is agitated. Certainly that is no less than I had expected. _He turned his head and opened his eyes, relaxing in time to watch as a black-clad figure blinked into place in front of him. The other was of above-average height, muscular and lean and obviously male, but nothing else of his appearance could be discerned. The black material covered him like a second skin, even to flattening his ears against his skull. He wore a multi-compartment utility belt, complete with a holstered pawgun on his left hip. In his right paw was a straight, single-edged longsword whose blade flashed in a random opalescence along its length. This, the newcomer pointed at the panda.

"No more games. I've had more than enough of your psychic assault."

"And a warm welcome to you as well, Mr. Sinclair." He indicated a low platform to his left. "Please, have a seat."

The tall one made no move to do so. "Who are you? And why have you been calling me?"

The panda sighed. "My name is Wu Peng, but that will mean nothing to you. You needed to know some things. Things I did not care to entrust to paper. And as you can see …" Here he spread his paws and glanced down at his wasted form. "… I am in no shape for extended travel. Nor do I have much time left. The days of my journey soon will run their course." He folded his arms and contemplated his visitor.

Matt held his pose for several more seconds, then very deliberately placed the point of his sword against the palm of his free paw and slid the weapon into it, where it vanished with an almost imperceptible flicker. He crossed his arms and stared at the panda. "I don't feel much like sitting. In fact, I don't feel much like staying. I'm only here to stop your interference in my affairs. And your incessant yammering in my mind has given me a headache."

Wu Peng's brows drew together the smallest fraction, and he raised a paw. He waved it slowly to the right, and then snapped his fingers. Matt's head snapped back at the same time as he yelped in surprise. He brought one paw up to the bridge of his nose, rubbing upward to the top of his head. "It's gone! How did you do that?"

"That is my gift: Healing."

"… Gift?"

"The Guardian receives a gift, to help him in his work."

"… Guardian?"

"The One Guardian. I was appointed many, many years ago. But the world has changed much in the past century, and I fear my usefulness has reached its end."

"All right. I can hear the capital letters on that 'One Guardian' title. What gives?"

"It is time to pass the mantle."

"… I don't follow you."

"I am relinquishing the role. To you."

"… Excuse me?"

"You are the next Guardian. It now falls to you to attend to the temporal crises of this world."

" . . . What. Are. You. Talking. About?" He shivered a little at the utter strangeness of this situation.

The panda cocked his head to one side. "I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to leave you standing in the cold. Let us go in out of the weather." He stood, slowly, and walked to his right, where Matt noticed a door.

"Um … thank you. But I'm not cold."

Wu Peng didn't answer, leading him instead into a hallway carved through the stone face of the mountain, many meters inward at a negligible upward incline. They emerged into a large natural cavern that had been modified by adding cells and alcoves around the wall. Of those Matt could see into, four contained other furs, sitting in meditation, who took no notice of the new arrival. An immense crystal stalactite depended from the center of the roof, casting soft shimmers and beams of white and blue around the vault. Matt stopped and stared, his muzzle hanging open.

"Lovely, is it not?"

"…" Matt pointed, but could not come up with any words.

"No, youngling, it is not magic. It is moonlight and starlight, guided to the base of the crystal through an opening in the side of the mountain. Your arrival time was coincidental. It will soon darken as the moon moves out of line." He turned to the nearest cell and moved very slowly in its direction. "You should return some night when the moon is full and the sky free of clouds. But come. I have much to tell you."

Matt followed, but could not take his eyes off the glowing monolith. "What's it made of?"

"Why is that important?"

"Huh?"

"Is not beauty for beauty's sake enough?"

"Uh … sure. I was just curious."

"You wanted to know whether you could duplicate this effect in your … home? No, that is not right. Ah! In your paintings. That is it."

Now Matt stared at the panda. "How'd you know that?"

"I am the One Guardian. For yet a little while. But come, sit, eat." He indicated a low stone table (_Good grief, is everything made of rocks here?_) containing two pairs of carved stone bowls. The smaller of them contained a hot, spiced drink similar to kefir or lassi, thick and slightly alcoholic. The other held a generous portion of mutton stew. Both smelled good. Matt sat. He waited for Wu Peng to lower himself to the floor, and watched curiously as the old fur went through a short ritual of blessing. When the panda lifted his bowl to drink, Matt took his own.

They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, Matt casting suspicious glances at his host every few seconds. Wu Peng placed his empty bowl back on the table and leaned forward. "As I know you have other things to attend to, I will come to the issue at paw. You have been chosen to succeed me. You take over the responsibility for, among other things, assuring that no single being or government gains ascendancy on our world, and that threats to the life of the planet are opposed."

"Threats … to the life of the planet?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh. Right. And Giant Purple Moon Wombats are going to float down and proclaim me as their long lost prince."

The panda chuckled softly. "I was just as incredulous when I was first appointed. But you will come to understand soon."

Matt leaned forward as well, staring Wu Peng in the eye. "Mr. Wu, what I under_stand_ is that you need professional help. And if that's all you wanted to tell me, I think our business here is finished. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going. And please don't contact me again." Matt stood and concentrated briefly, but nothing happened. This startled him badly. His eyes jerked around the room, settling on the panda.

"You cannot leave just now because you have not yet accepted the position. You should be aware that refusal is not an option."

Matt strode around the table and loomed over the old fur. "_What_ did you _do_ to me?"

If Matt's threatening proximity bothered the panda, he didn't show it. "I did nothing. I have no part in choosing the next Guardian."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Then … who?"

"The Creator. Or one of the emissaries of the Creator. I was never sure just which, but it makes no practical difference. It is the Will of the Creator that you take up the post. Therefore, you will do so."

Matt, despite the relative cool of the room, was sweating. "The Creator? You mean God?"

"By whatever term you wish to use. The omnipotent creative Force behind our existence. That which surrounds and fills and upholds all that is. The One who Knows. The Creator."

"But…" He licked his lips. "Why? Why me?"

"Ah! That much _was_ revealed to me. You were chosen because you are incorruptible."

"… Huh?"

"You have long suspected as much, but you have no way to know for yourself. Subjectively, many furs consider themselves to be just and upright and honest, not prey to bribes or threats or other machinations. But every fur, as they say, has his price. Except for you."

"Except for me."

"Yes."

"_Just_ me?"

Wu Peng could tell from Matt's inflection that he didn't believe that statement either. "Oh, there are others, to be sure. Quite a few. But you are better qualified for other reasons. Apart from having a very finely honed perception for right and justice, you are keen of wit, highly observant, and an expert martial artist. Cowardice is a concept foreign to your very being, and by nature you are something of an adventurer. You were, you must admit, a rogue vigilante for more than a decade. Your art has made you independently wealthy, and … well, your unique mode of travel had no small part in the choice, I am sure. Even now, after having used it for nearly twenty years, you have little concept of just how powerful you truly are. But you will learn."

"Really."

"You may rely upon it."

"So … where … when did … _how_ do you _know_ all this?"

"You will come to discover that the One Guardian receives that which he needs to know."

Matt wasn't sure how to respond to that. He slumped against the wall and thought about it for a minute.

Wu Peng cleared his throat. "I will understand if you need some time to come to terms with this. It is a lot of information to assimilate so quickly."

"Oh, you think?"

"Truly."

Matt gave a disgusted snort and wandered over to the alcove entrance to stare out at the stalactite. He stood that way for the next seven or eight minutes, and Wu Peng was content to let him mull over the situation. Finally he turned back to the panda. "You know, this job sounds like some kind of … oh, I don't know … a prophet or something similar. Is that it?"

"It is more than being a prophet, although you may find yourself cast in that role from time to time. And it is not simply a job. It is what you are. The One Guardian is the ultimate champion, and is under geas to protect the planet. You can do no other."

"There you go again with that 'protect the planet' thing again! Surely you don't mean I'm responsible for the whole world!" Matt's voice clearly expressed his dislike of the idea. "Do you?"

"That is precisely what I mean."

"Protect the _planet_?"

"Yes."

"From _what_?"

"You might be surprised. It was my privilege to prevent this world's destruction on two occasions."

"Ah … huh." Matt sat back down across the table. "Okay. … Let's say for the sake of argument that I take the job."

"Yes, let us say so, since that is indeed the case."

Matt ignored that. "Are there any perks that come with the position?"

"Perks?" The old fur thought that over for a few seconds. "That will depend upon what you mean by 'perks'. You are not immortal, if that is what you are hinting at."

"But you said … something about how things have changed in the 'last century'." Here Matt drew little quotation marks in the air. "How long have _you_ been the Guardian?"

"Nearly three hundred years."

Matt quirked an eyebrow. "That's hardly a normal lifespan for a panda."

"Three hundred years is all that we are asked for. I felt it would be easier for you, perhaps give you a smoother transition, if you had a bit of preparation before assuming your new role. I was fifty-five when the previous Guardian died. I have often had occasion to wish that I had met her first. That is why I requested this meeting."

"Her? The one before you was a femme?"

Wu Peng nodded.

"Huh. Well. So I've gotta be the … 'champion' of this world for the next three hundred years?"

Again the nod. "Or until you die in the course of your duties. My fate, in reaching the end of my geas and passing the mantle in this fashion, is the very much rarer occurrence."

Matt examined him with a critical eye. "Offpaw, though, I'd say you look a lot older than fifty-five."

"This is a recent change. It was my signal that a new Guardian would soon be chosen."

"And I just lucked into it?"

"Luck, as you so cavalierly express it, had nothing to do with your selection."

"Yeah. Whatever." Matt stared moodily at the table for a minute. "Anything else? Or am I left to hang in the wind until I figure out what I'm supposed to do?"

"You may find that you have much time that is your own. I had whole decades where my services as Guardian were untested. But, as I said, the world has changed much. I was heavily involved in both World Wars in the previous century, and have traveled the world over many times in the last fifty years. Sadly, much of the time I was too late to prevent tragedy, and could only help to heal the hurts of those who survived. You could stay very busy for some time to come. Much of that will depend on how you solve the problems you are given." He paused for the space of a measured breath. "You will be laboring under less of a restriction in that respect, as you need not fear the vagaries and ravages of the customary modes of travel."

"I see. I think." Matt scooted back until he could lean against the wall. Again, Wu Peng respected his need for introspection.

Finally, something else occurred to the wolverine and he spoke up, "Is that it?"

"That covers the basic elements, yes."

"What about Diedra?"

"Diedra? That would be your mate?"

"Yes. What happens to her?"

"Nothing. Unless your identity becomes known, there is no reason to fear for her safety. And you have been singularly successful in maintaining your public anonymity thus far."

"Oh. So … nobody will know that I'm … this 'Guardian' thing?"

"Not unless you profess it yourself. Even your mate need not know, although I think you will tell her. I sense that your relationship with her is a transparent one."

"No, hang on a sec. That's not what I mean. Does she get to _stay_ with me?"

Wu Peng slowly shook his head. "Her life will be the normal one she would have had, if we had never met."

"So you're telling me that I won't age, but I'll have to watch my wife grow old and die!"

The old panda sighed heavily. "Yes. That, at least, was how it was with me. I never told my mate. She had always been of a frail constitution, and died only six years after my assumption of the title. I did not want to burden her."

"Hang on. You said your gift was Healing."

"Ah." The panda let his eyes slide from Matt's face. "Yes. But it was a gift that I acquired slowly, over a span of many long years. I believe that my expertise in the martial arts was much more significant at the time of my choosing. I was personal trainer to the Emperor, and the master of the school that trained his personal guards."

"So I get to spend the last two hundred and fifty years alone." Matt didn't try to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"If that is your choice. There is no reason you could not remarry after your mate passes."

Matt shot him a look of pure venom.

"I know whereof I speak, Mr. Sinclair."

"Do you?"

"I do. My first mate was an arranged marriage. I cared for her, certainly, but more as a good friend than a lover, and I mourned when she died. But later, when I met Lian …"

Matt's expression softened at the catch in the old fur's voice.

"Please know, Mr. Sinclair, that I understand your reservations. I understand them more fully than you do yourself. And I sorrow for what you do not yet know."

"Then why'd … why'd the Creator pick _me_? Why should I take the job at all?"

Wu Peng looked at him steadily. "Why does the lotus bloom?"

"Huh?"

"Why does the mountain fir plant its roots in crevices in the bare rock? Why does the tide rise? Why does the tern fly thousands of leagues to return to the same patch of rocky beach where it hatched?"

Matt met his stare, but he didn't answer.

"These things happen because they must. You will be the Guardian because you must. You are the right one. The Creator has determined that you are the most suitable fur available. And you will take on this responsibility freely because you know it is the honorable thing to do."

Matt's gaze stayed riveted to the ancient panda for the space of half a minute. He seemed to reach a decision and stood. "One more question: How many Guardians have there been?"

"I do not know."

"You weren't ever curious?"

"Yes."

Matt snorted. "But that falls outside the scope of what I 'need to know'."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But there has always been a Guardian."

"Always? Define always."

"Since before recorded history. That was the answer I was given, and is all the answer I am able to give you."

Matt's muzzle twisted. He drew a long breath, followed by a longer sigh, then he nodded once, walked out into the great cavern, and vanished, leaving a thick rime of frost on the floor where he had stood. A chill breath of air wafted into the alcove and played with the panda's whiskers.

Wu Peng smiled and let slip a relieved chuckle. _Soon, Lian, soon. I will see you again._

##


	19. Chapter 2 Undercurrents Part C

**_Chapter Two – Undercurrents – Part C_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Friday 04 November 2016, 12:20pm **_

Sandee Grey had gone over her plans in her mind at least twenty times during the morning's drive, and she still fretted about her ability to pull it off. She guided her car into the restaurant's lot, found a space, and parked. _Michael's_, she thought. _How fitting._ She got out, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the entrance. _I could __use__ an angel on my side today._

Doralee was sitting on one of the benches in front of the receptionist's desk, and stood when Sandee walked in. The two squirrel femmes sized each other up for the space of two seconds, then Sandee smiled and held out her paw. "Doralee! You really _haven't_ changed much. A bit taller, maybe. I like your headfur short like that."

"You don't look much different either." Doralee eyed the shorter femme's bun. She nodded her head at it and said, "You let yours grow. Last time I saw you, it was about four centimeters long. And green."

"I decided green didn't suit me." She released Doralee's paw and gestured in at the dining room. "Shall we?"

They were seated, gave the waiter their drink orders, and as soon as he turned away, Sandee got right down to business. "You know, from what I gathered over the phone, there isn't much I can do for you."

"Yeah, you hinted at that. But I'd like the chance to at least present the case. See if I can change your mind."

"Uh, yeah. About that." She chuckled a little guiltily. "It isn't _my_ mind you have to worry about."

"Oh?"

"Nope. I'm not calling the shots by any stretch."

"Oh. Mrs. O'Musca, huh?"

"And Martin, too. He's dead set against getting involved with the media."

Doralee's muzzle twisted in disappointment. "Well, shi … um, shoot."

"I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, but truth is usually the quickest way to resolving something like this." She sighed. "Your chances getting him on one of those reality vids strike me as awfully slim."

"So you don't think he'll talk to me?"

"Not that way, I don't. Not under these circumstances."

"Huh." Doralee didn't say anything for a moment as that information digested. "Well. Umm. Maybe we should have talked longer when I called."

"Maybe so. It's just that I know how Martin reacted in a couple of instances when someone came by to try to coerce an interview with him. I wouldn't want to get your hopes up."

"But I don't want to _coerce_ an interview! A hostile interviewee is no fun!"

Sandee shrugged apologetically. But inwardly, she felt a measure of satisfaction. _That's a good response! I might be able to work with it if she's being honest with me._

Doralee gave a frustrated _huff_. "You coulda told me _that_ over the phone! If that's the way it is, why'd you come all the way down here to Tappan? That's gotta be a five-hour drive."

"Just about. And I only stopped to rest once."

"So … if there's no hope of getting Martin O'Musca in front of a mic, what are we here for?"

"Now hang on just a second. For one thing, I didn't say you'd never get him to talk. I said I didn't think he'd do a _studio_ appearance."

"But …"

"And for another thing … well … I wanted to see you."

"Oh." For reasons she couldn't analyze at the moment, that made Doralee a little uncomfortable. "Why?"

"Um …" She paused and shrugged. "Pick a reason. I skipped out suddenly, didn't say 'goodbye' or anything. I guess I'd like to get caught up. We didn't part on the best of terms, y'know."

"Ah. Yes. I didn't want you to leave. I called you an idiot, I think."

"I believe your words were 'Damned idjit', followed by a couple of rather more colorful descriptions. And then I called you a stubborn prude and said I'd see you in hell."

"Heh-heh! Yes, you did! That's funny!"

"Considering how things turned out, you're right, it is."

"Sandee …"

"… Yes?"

"… uh … how … why did … what made you …"

"How'd I end up married to a pastor?"

"Yes! That's right near the bottom of my list of possibilities. I thought you'd, like, totally turned your back on the church."

"Yes. I did."

"And?"

"It didn't work."

"What's that mean?"

"It means God wouldn't let me go." She leaned her elbows on the table, then had to sit back straight when the waiter returned with their drinks. Each femme ordered a salad, he took the menus, and left them alone.

Doralee prompted, "You care to expand on that?"

"That depends. You're in the media. Are you planning a documentary on preachers' wives?"

Doralee caught the glint of amusement in her eye and chuckled. "No. Not unless you've done something heroic. That's what this is all about, you know."

_Yes! Paydirt!_ Sandee blinked at her, feigning surprise. "… What _what's_ all about?"

"The interview. O'Musca's a hero. That needs to be showcased."

"Showcased?"

"Yeah. We were hoping to show that side of things."

"Really?"

"Well, yeah."

"You know … I think you're right. We should have talked longer." She shook her head. "No, I didn't know. You never gave me any specifics over the phone. So it's Martin's heroism you want to play up?"

"That's the idea. But … it's not exactly _my_ ballgame." She lifted her glass and took a sip. "Charles Turnaud's the one behind this."

Sandee gave her an incredulous look. This _was_ a surprise! But it fell right in with her goals. "I thought it was your deal."

"Nope."

"_The_ Charles Turnaud? The fur behind FurNet? Worth about five or six billion?"

"That's the one. He's all hot to offer something with a little moral fiber for a change."

Sandee snorted softly. "That _would_ be a change. What's your connection with him?"

"I work for him."

"As what?"

"Admin Assistant, a little production coordination, a little PR, a little design … and a lot of research. He's got several furs on staff who do pretty much the same things. Likes everyone to be flexible." She smiled a bit. "We have a lot of brainstorming sessions, on just about every topic you could think of." She paused and gave Sandee a puzzled look. "Hey, how'd you get the conversation turned around like thataway?"

"Excuse me?"

"You were going to tell me how you hooked up with Alan Grey."

"Was I, now?" Sandee wore the ghost of a grin.

"I thought you were."

Sandee shrugged and took another sip. "Maybe I was. We can cover that ground later, though, after we get done talking about your story."

"Okay, fine! Be all mysterious." She laced her fingers together in front of her on the table. "The deal is that Mr. Turnaud has his heart set on getting Martin's view of the attack."

"That's it? No hidden agendas? No preconceived notions?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"No leading questions? No religion-bashing?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Ah-ah-ah! There's nothing 'of course' about it, as you know quite well. The conservative religions are about the only targets left that are considered safe to ridicule."

"That is _not_ what we're about! We just want to know what was going on in Martin's mind during the fight."

"Well, that's a switch!" She paused, and said, "You know, Martin would much rather _forget_ the attack the talk about it. They very nearly died."

"And I don't blame him. Not one bit. But what he did was … well, it was surprising. And brave, and resourceful, and … well, _heroic_. Mr. Turnaud thinks that's what America wants. That the fur on the street needs some heroes."

"And what do _you_ think?"

"Me?"

Sandee nodded.

"Doesn't matter what I think. Mr. Turnaud's my boss, and it's his thoughts that matter."

"So if left to yourself, you'd leave Martin alone?"

"Well …" She squirmed a little, not meeting Sandee's eyes, and re-crossed her legs. "that is … no. Not if I thought there was a ghost of a chance he'd talk to me."

"Really?"

"… Really. I've never met him, of course, but I've read about six dozen accounts of the attack, and that kid's got the right stuff. People _do_ need to hear what he has to say."

"And you really, truly believe that?"

"Yeah. I do."

Sandee grinned broadly. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

"Oh?" Doralee hadn't expected that response.

"I happen to agree with you."

"What?"

"Martin's one of the better role models of his generation I've ever met. I wouldn't call him a _leader_ among the youth at church, he's too modest for that, but he's the one most of them will talk to if they need a sounding board. He's safe, see? Never gossips, never puts any of them down, and according to a few that I've talked to he gives sensible advice. He always sticks up for his friends. And he knows how to keep his muzzle shut. But one of the really outstanding features of his character is his humility. He doesn't see himself as anything special. He doesn't see what the fuss is all about, and wants to be left alone. He's a private sort of kid."

"That sure doesn't make my job any easier."

"No." Sandee reached over and patted her cousin's paw. "But I'll see what I can do about getting him to meet with you." She paused for three heartbeats, holding Doralee's gaze. "If you're on the level."

"I am, I am! What do you need to see?"

"How about the interview questions, for starters?"

Doralee's excitement was obvious. "So you'll help?"

"I'll do what I can. But I can't promise anything."

##

_** 1:10pm **_

The video crew swarmed the Inn like gnats. They were everywhere, either following the actors, or recording every nook, cranny, and knick-knack, from the pantries to the porches to the staircase landings. They filmed every square meter of the library, from about six angles each. They took shots of the exterior of the big, old house from the porch, the drive, nine spots in the front meadow, the road, and even from the tree line on the hill opposite. Front, back, and both sides were filmed, so Wendy thought, with exhaustive, nay, ridiculous thoroughness. In a couple of hours, there would even be a helicopter flying in to get the aerial views.

Everyone was so busy that Wendy hadn't really had much interaction with the stars of the show. Mr. Lyons seemed friendly enough, if a little preoccupied, but T'Mera Manes was a typical prima donna. The slinky marten's cadre of retainers and sycophants followed her everywhere, and nothing was ever good enough, or warm enough, or fresh enough, or clean enough, or fast enough. And Wendy had _had_ enough!

_If it weren't so damned cold, I'd high-tail it down to the creek! And hang the consequences._

_No,_ she corrected herself. _That would be inhospitable._ And Cheetaur was fun to be around, when she had a spare second to chat. But there hadn't been too many of those. The shooting schedule was tight, and very hectic.

So Wendy'd holed up in the kitchen. A crew of three had spent all afternoon in that end of the house yesterday, and it seemed that they were satisfied with what they'd accomplished. So she was left pretty well unmolested, as long as she stayed right there. At this moment one of the crews was in the Fairy-Tale Suite, she knew, recording every wisp of fabric and every mote of dust for posterity.

So it would be no stretch to say that she felt a little out of sorts today. Thursday afternoon, Ellen had to drive back up to Vergennes for a previous engagement with her family, and so Wendy had had the Inn all to herself. That didn't normally bother her. But a plague of nightmares had returned, and after the third episode the shaken vixen decided to just stay awake. That was at a quarter of four this morning, and she hadn't really felt good since then. Right now, what she wanted more than anything else was just to talk with Ellen. She felt that their friendship had grown strong, even before they discovered their common interest in things of a more … intimate nature. The mink turned out to be a careful, attentive and often surprising lover, and Wendy missed her badly.

She was pulled from her brown study upon noticing one of the crew cabs as it jerked to a stop outside the south windows. Two furs got out and began filming the garden shed. Her eyes flicked to the clock over the door, and she sighed. _I'd better get started on supper._ She had only two guests coming in this evening, and that was for the late slot at eight-thirty. But the tenderloin chops that were the centerpiece of the meal would need to marinate for six hours, and she ought to get that going.

She rose from the chair, knuckling her lower back, and that activity segued into a long stretch-and-yawn. She shook herself, sighed, and commenced her preparations. Cheetaur would be leaving in the morning, and after that Wendy would be back with her nose to the grindstone. She caught the change in attitude of that thought, and chided herself for slipping into old patterns.

_Come on, girl! Lighten up. This place ain't such a drag, is it? It's still better than bean-counting._

##

_** Saturday 05 November 2016, 9:40am **_

"I'll not be hearin' anot'er werd on't!"

"You don't even want to just talk to her?"

"_Not woon werd!"_

Sandee sat silently on the sofa in Siobhan's front room, watching her friend fume. She'd expected no lesser reaction, and took some time to consider how best to proceed toward her goal. After a bit she observed, "Some of those reporters must have really been obnoxious."

That's all the prompting the matronly dormouse needed. "Ye doon know th' half of it! Nor th' quarter! Night an' day they be at us!" She nodded toward the door. "I be havin' Jake stop by twaicet a day noo." Jake was one of the sheriff's deputies. He'd had to enforce the restraining order on the FNN reporter. "I told tha' worrisome rat _jist_ wha' I thought o' _him_. Sneakin' inta me kitchen like 'e ban some common thief!"

"I can certainly see how you'd want to have as little to do with them as possible."

"Aye! The likes o' them, snoopin' aroun' the village …" She subsided into dark mutterings as she rose to go into the kitchen. In a minute, Sandee heard, "Would ye care fer a spot o' tay?"

"Yes, thank you."

The proffered tea was shortly served, and Siobhan launched anew into the topic, treating Sandee to a complete and excruciatingly detailed account of the atrocities the representatives of the popular media had visited upon the O'Musca household. Sandee let her rant, aiding the diatribe with occasional sympathetic noises and suggestions. It was three quarters of an hour before she finally started to wind down. The squirrel decided this would be a good time to start the next phase of her plan.

"You know, Siobhan, if this is any indication of just how big a draw Martin's going to be, they probably won't leave you alone for months – maybe even years. He'll turn up in the tabloids, in those grainy, long-range shots you always see of celebrities who are trying to live a normal life. And they'll likely make up all sorts of stories about him."

"Stories?"

"Oh, yes." Sandee nodded vigorously. "If they can't get something legitimate, they'll make things up. They do it to the movie stars and pop singers all the time."

"But! … But! … T'ey couldn' do t'a' sort o' thing to … to a praivate citizen!" Her rapidly thickening brogue combined with the comical look of doubt and shock on her face nearly made Sandee laugh out loud. "Could t'ey?"

"I'm afraid so."

Siobhan was wringing her paws and looking around the room for answers that weren't there.

Sandee thought it best to drop the rest of the bait. She knitted her brows thoughtfully and said, "Hey, Siobhan …"

The worried dormouse looked at her friend.

"You know … I think … I think that might work …" Sandee sounded as if she were half-way talking to herself.

"Wha' migh' werk?"

"It's just crazy enough to do the trick."

"What?"

"It might be a long shot, but … really, though, now that I think about it … hmmmm …"

"What? What air ye thinkin'?"

"That what Doralee offered may turn out to be more of a blessing for you than a curse."

The dormouse wore a nonplussed expression. "… Coom ag'in?"

"Okay, think of it this way. All those media types are in a constant war over ratings and advertising dollars, right?"

"… Aye."

"FurNet is the biggest one of the bunch, but not by much, and the close competitors are always snapping at their heels. Right?"

"I s'pose. So wha'?"

"Okay, play out _this_ scenario." She let a measure of excitement creep into her voice. "Let's say Martin agrees to talk with this Turnaud guy, but only on the condition that it will be an exclusive. And FurNet will have to be the one to make sure it _stays_ exclusive."

"Hoo does tha' help?"

"Well, hey, I bet FurNet's got a whole _platoon_ of lawyers on staff to make sure nobody infringes on any copyrights, or whatever it is that they do. We'd make sure that everyfur else had to leave you completely alone!" She finished her pitch brightly, as if she'd just worked out the idea.

Siobhan began to look very hopeful. "Aye! If we had … wha' is it they do, then? A contract?"

"Yes!" Sandee bobbed her head again. "A contract! But it'll have to be one in our favor. And short. Not so long as to let them bury any kind of agenda in legalese."

"Aye, that's th' truth of it, now!" She leaned over toward her friend. "Who do we know who'd be a good un t' wraite it all out?"

Sandee smiled, inwardly gleeful. Now that she'd accomplished the hard part, they could start to have some fun with this situation.

##

_** 2:45pm **_

Wendy was positively fuming. She stomped through the huge old house, trying to vent some of her anger so she wouldn't break anything. _That asshole! The nerve of some furs! Lawsuit, is it? I gotcher lawsuit right here, sucker! Non-refundable means NON-refundable! Jerks!_

A very recent phone conversation was the cause of this tirade. Since the Bechler's had postponed their stay for a week, she only had one couple scheduled to visit the Inn this weekend, and they were supposed to have arrived at noon. But twelve o'clock came and went without any guests. When they finally did call, it was with a terse, "We-aren't-coming-and-we-want-our-deposit-back." The fellow had been downright surly, and had cut her off in the middle of reminding him that the fifty dollars was a reasonable precaution on her part, since she'd be losing business income, and could possibly have some food go to waste as well. He'd threatened legal action just before hanging up on her.

_I work on this place like a fuckin' slave, and those fuckin' bastards don't give a fuckin' shit!_ She found herself standing in front of the door to the Rear Porch, slammed it open, and stalked outside. The dark overcast hid any hint of the sun, and a bitterly cold wind swept in out of the west, carrying a promise of snow. She strode out to the edge of the yard, but stopped at the trees and turned back around toward the house.

Balling her fists, she yelled, "_And just where the hell is Ellen?_"

That was bugging her almost as much as the cancellation. She jerked out her PA and checked to see that it was turned on … for the third time. Sure that it was operational, she jammed it back into her coat pocket, hunched herself against the icy wind and trudged on down to the creek.

##

_** 4:50pm **_

The heavy overcast had been building all day, piling up ahead of the westerly wind, and the resulting depressingly gray landscape around the Inn laid siege to Wendy's senses. The conifers weren't green; they were a boring shade of off-black, creating impenetrable shadows underneath. The deciduous trees raised bare limbs and trunks to the lowering sky in mute supplication, a cry for relief from the deadening onslaught of winter. But the wet, gelid wind mocked them. Though trees and grass, furs and ferals may live and grow and thrive, they all must someday die. They always die. Every living thing, if lucky enough to avoid a violent death, will fail, and shrivel, and fade. But Winter is eternal. Winter never ages, never grows feeble. And Winter takes no prisoners. It knows no mercy. The bitter cold … the unfeeling wind … the blinding snow … the deadly loneliness …

These were her thoughts as she sat bundled in front of the window in her chamber. She'd pulled a quilt out of the armoire and wrapped herself in it, pulling the rocking chair around so she could see outside. But the sun was setting very early these days, and with the dense clouds overhead, that pale orb might as well not even be there.

Ellen had called just after four. By then Wendy was back from her walk along the creek, and thoroughly chilled. She'd fixed herself a large cup of hot cocoa and was toying with the idea of stoking up the fire in the library when her PA buzzed. But Wendy's relief was short-lived, as the elated mink could speak of only one thing. She was positively bubbly about a surprise gift from her aunt: a two-week vacation in Mexico.

"Isn't it just _fan__tas__tic_? She won this total-package getaway for four! It's gonna be just us girls, me and Aunt Barb and Mom and Aunt Rachel, and we'll be at this cool little resort in Cancun and it's a package deal, one of those all-inclusive things, and …"

And she exulted about the trip for five solid minutes while Wendy just wilted into her chair.

_Two weeks? I won't see her, won't hold her, for two weeks? I have to run the whole place for two weeks?_

Wendy wasn't sure which of those two situations she was more upset about.

_She isn't getting back until the twenty-first, and that humongous party is on Thanksgiving! That's the twenty-fourth! I'll have to get someone to fill in! I can't do this by myself! I can't do it!_

_Ellen! I need you! Please…_

But she steeled herself and congratulated the girl and wished her fun on the trip. She hung up quickly, before she could start to cry.

And so now she sat, huddled in the rocker: a small, almost childlike form hidden in the folds of an old crazy-quilt, shivering every now and then in quiet sobs as the wan illumination slowly yielded to evening's gloom. A light tattoo against the glass heralded the beginnings of the sleet that would fall through the night.

##


	20. Chapter 3 Rebound Part A

**_Chapter Three – Rebound – Part A_**

**Without trust,  
****words become the hollow sound  
****of a wooden gong.  
****With trust,  
****words become life itself.**

_**- John Harold**_

##

_** Saturday 05 November 2016, 5:20pm **_

"I dunno, Mum. It sounds a wee dodgy."

"I'll admit we'll have t' be _that_ careful. Those lawyers be dead clever rogues."

Sandee said, "Then we'll have to be cleverer than they are." She glanced out the window at the altercation going on just down the road. Deputy Jake was expelling yet another reporter, and she and her crew were not taking the dismissal lightly.

Martin tracked her gaze and grumped, "She followed me a' the way from the Shop, trayin' t' get a picture."

The squirrel nodded. "What'd I tell you, Siobhan?"

"I know. Me head gets that thick when I'm upset. I jist hadn' thought it out." She pointed at the phone. "Whayn't ye ca' y'r cousin an' let her know what we be about. An' ye may mention what we want on that one-page contract, too."

Sandee agreed and was shortly speaking with Doralee. Martin and Siobhan could hear her shriek of delight quite clearly over the phone, and had a chuckle together about it. The two squirrels talked details for a while, and it was decided that Mr. Turnaud himself would come up to New Haven on Monday to speak with Martin.

Siobhan gave a start. "Och! I'd best get t' cleanin'! We're havin' comp'ny in."

"Slow down, Siobhan. You've got plenty of time, and besides, your house is squeaky-clean already."

But the dormouse went fussing about anyway, straightening and re-arranging.

Martin leaned over to Sandee and whispered, "Leave off, ma'am. This'll help t' keep her occupied till Monday."

##

_** Monday 07 November 2016, 10:15am **_

_It is no bloody wonder Uncle Julian went nuts! This place would drive anyone crazy if he was stuck out here by himself for any length of time. _

Wendy guided her minivan carefully down the freshly-scraped secondary road, mindful of the remaining patches of ice. _I've gotta get some chains on this thing. Blasted weather got the roads mucked up to a fare-thee-well! _After confirming that her guests for the evening were still coming (they "wouldn't miss it for the world") a canvass of her pantry revealed the lack of two key spices. She needed the odd household item as well: vacuum cleaner filters, weather stripping, caulk, some additional insulation for the outside spigots, and that sort of thing. So she took her list and headed for Quinn's.

She'd sulked most of the day on Sunday, but by sunset had worked through the worst of her disappointment. Her strong practical side reasserted itself and persuaded her that what she really should do was find somefur to replace Ellen (in her culinary capacity at any rate) and just keep going. That thought followed her down the road, dampening her mood a little. She'd never been terribly fond of waking up in a cold bed, and she didn't like it any better now. Wendy realized that Ellen's affection had helped more than she'd suspected.

The elderly raccoon was pleased to see her, and beckoned for her to join him and Tom Fellian by the stove. It was very quiet in the store this morning, and the three furs had leisure to swap pleasantries for a few minutes. She lamented over the icy roads. Tom was sympathetic, and let her know that the first ice of the season usually kept most furs home for a few days.

Quinn added, "But as soon as tha county gits the roads cleared up a bit, ev'ryone'll come out an' stock up."

Wendy explained about Ellen's sudden trip to Mexico and showed him her 'Urgent: Help-Wanted' flyer. He said she could tack it up by the front door.

After that she wandered the aisles, taking her time shopping, finding the odd item she needed that hadn't been on her list, and relaxing in the store's old-timey atmosphere. It wasn't the first time she'd done this, and doubtless would not be the last. There was something solid and comforting about Quinn's place, an indefinable cheer that brought to mind a time when no one's doors were locked, and you knew everyone you met on a first-name basis. The door chimed a couple of times while she meandered through the store, but she didn't pay any attention to it.

She was taking her box of purchases to the counter, and had just rounded the end of an aisle, when she spotted someone's _very_ broad back by the register. He stood there, talking with Quinn. Half-a-heartbeat later, she heard his voice, and the recognition solidified. She stopped, staring, as several score thoughts and fears, feelings and emotions kicked her in the tail, clenching her gut and sending a sluice of cold water down her spine.  
_Flashes of the nightmare she'd had last Thursday played across her mind's eye …_  
_Snatches of spinning autumn leaves fluttered all around her while he watched …_  
_She dangled from his fist, soaking wet, over a swift stream …_  
_She saw the hall ceiling, white, free of smoke damage, and him standing there with that ultrasonic gizmo …_  
_Snuggling, warm and deep in loose hay, she shared a wonderful kiss …_  
_She flinched at the look of shock on his face when she slammed her door on him …_

Those visions and many, many more raced through her psyche between one breath and the next, leaving her seriously off-balance. One foot strayed back in the direction of the aisle, out of sight, but she waffled, shivering a little, and shaking her head to try to drive the memories away. She didn't know how she was supposed to feel, but she was pretty sure this wasn't it.

They were _past_ all that complicated emotional stuff! Weren't they? They were just _friends!_ They'd patched it all up, gotten everything out in the open, right? There must be some other reason for this deluge. Maybe she was just stressed out because Ellen had gone. Yeah. That must be it. He wasn't interested in sex on her terms and she wasn't interested in marriage on his, so it was just a platonic friendship, right? Just water under the bridge, right?

_Right?_

One of his ears quivered and cocked around in her direction. He looked over his shoulder at her, and the recognition was instant and obvious. He grinned, turned, and called her name, and she forced her breathing into something like a normal rhythm, and forced her wooden legs to walk toward the counter. She concentrated on centering herself, achieving a slight measure of control. Her heart rate would be a dead giveaway that something was up, and she more than half suspected that he could hear it as well as she could.

She pasted what she hoped was a pleasant-but-noncommittal smile on her muzzle and greeted him as she placed her box of things beside the cash register. "Good morning."

"Hey there B&B Lady!"

"How've you been, Karl? I – " She searched for a word, a phrase, anything. "I haven't seen you in a while." _No, dammit, too personal, that wasn't what I meant to say!_

"Oh, look, I want to apologize about missing dinner at the Café last week. Things just got so crazy around here!" His grin turned sheepish. "I got a little crazy, too. Maybe more than a little. Happens sometimes. But I'll be there tomorrow night, Scout's honor!"

_A safe topic! Something neutral, bland, even!_ Relief began to creep back in. "Oh, don't worry about it! It's not as if you hadn't already paid for the meals, y'know. And I understand _exactly_ what you mean about things getting crazy." She took some of her purchases out of the box and laid them on the counter so Quinn could see what was in the bottom. "By the way, how's Martin holding up under all the scrutiny? I hear something about purists or the attack just about every time I flip on the TV, and his name gets mentioned as often as not."

"Ehnh. Better than most would in his situation. He hates this media attention, though. They won't leave him alone."

Quinn interjected, " 'at'll be sixty-two an' ten."

Wendy passed him her chit. "Here ya go."

Karl said, "Oh, hey, listen, I've been meaning to talk to you about your security system."

She re-tracked mentally and said, "The Inn has a security system? I wasn't aware of it."

"It doesn't, yet. I meant to tell you about it. Back in July, after I came out to clean up your kitchen, I thought it might be a good idea for you to have some protection out there. You're quite a ways off the beaten path." He grinned. "And I've got all the components. They just need to be installed. Sorry!"

"Really!" This was a big surprise. And it piqued her curiosity. "So tell me about it. Where'd it come from? Did you put it together?" She turned an eye to Quinn as he passed her chit back, mouthing a silent _'Thank you' _to him.

"Yeah, mostly. It's all remote-operation. It will cover ground floor access, and there are some other units for monitoring the grounds." He leaned against the counter, resting on one elbow. "Julian and I had talked about security a couple of times, but he died before … well, before I had a chance to do anything about it. The system is basic in some respects, advanced in others. You can set it to send a silent alarm to the police, or a really loud alarm on site. Or both."

"Huh. I see. I guess."

"So, are you interested?"

She nodded vigorously. "Hell, yes! I've been playing around with the idea of something similar, just, y'know, in my head. Something along the lines of an ADT setup. But I knew I couldn't afford it."

"When would be a good time to come out and set it up?"

"Uh … well …" She noted that Quinn had placed all her items back in the box, and was ambling back over to where Tom sat beside the stove, studying the placement of pieces on the chess board. "Is it, um … that is, uh, how much will it cost?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Nichts. Faic. Niente. Rien." He grinned.

"Really? I'd have thought a system like that would run several thousand at least."

"Not as far as you're concerned. Free and gratis. It's already been paid for."

"Really!"

"Yep."

"And there's no installation charge?"

"Get serious. Falls under 'maintenance'. I'll take a draw out of the trust to cover any costs I might incur. Not that I think there'll be much to cover."

"Ah. Okay." She shrugged. "Well then, c'mon out. This afternoon'll work fine, if you can fit it into your schedule."

"Shouldn't be a problem. I can be there after lunch."

A frown crossed her face. "Wait. How long d'you think it'll take? To put it in, I mean."

Tom took that opportunity to lean over to Quinn and say, under his breath, "I know it wouldn' take _me_ long to 'put it in'." Quinn gave him a reprimanding eye, but wheezed a low chuckle in response anyway.

Karl, whose keen ears missed nothing, ignored the by-play and said, "Oh … three hours. Maybe four. I just need to alter the program a bit and install the new monitors. They're all remote-control, so I don't have any wires to run."

"Izzat right? The whole thing's remote? No hardwires at all?"

"Yep."

"Well, okay! That's good. As long as you can be finished by five-thirty or six. I've got some diners coming in for the early slot."

"I'll be out there by twelve-thirty, then, just to be sure."

"Thanks, Karl! That's … that's really thoughtful. Above and beyond and all that." She grinned and poked him with her elbow, a distinct twinkle in her eye. "If I didn't know better, I might get the idea that you're sweet on me."

"Oh, but you _do_ know better." His answering smile was just as playful, and entirely free of emotional investment.

"Heh. Yeah. I s'pose I do." She picked up her purchases, tucking the box under one arm. "What-some-ever. I've got to get back. Supper's gonna be just a bit more elaborate than usual."

"Okay. See you in a bit."

She waved as she padded out the door. It flew open against her when she turned the knob, and she had to pull hard to shut it behind her, fighting the sudden gust of early winter wind for control. Silence reigned for a slow count of four as the papers on the walls and the dust on the floor started to settle back down.

The elderly calico took his pipe from between his teeth. " 'at's a dangerous game you playin' at there, boy."

Karl pulled his gaze from the door to meet Tom's stare. "Game? You think it's a game?" He glanced back at the door, letting a small sigh escape. "This is no game, Tom. It's more in the way of raw, unadulterated survival."

Quinn observed, "Jest ya be sure ev'ryone _does_ survive. I like ya both. Be a shame to see either one of ya get hurt."

Karl continued to stare at the door, tapping a claw slowly on the countertop. Finally he said, "Thank you for your concern, but I'm sure nothing will happen that I can't manage."

Tom snorted softly, and the old raccoon replied with an ambiguous grunt. They returned to their chess game.

##

_** later that afternoon **_

Alan and Sandee were already there when Charles Turnaud, accompanied by a single camera-fur, showed up for lunch at the O'Musca's modest home. The media mogul didn't ask him to bring any equipment in, though. He allowed as how he thought they should just chat for a while first, get to know one another a bit before putting any of them in the spotlight, a tactic that served to put him into Siobhan's good graces.

They ate lunch, and Mr. Turnaud made much over Siobhan's sweet-onion pie. Alan and Sandee watched him closely for any signs of insincerity, but if he had another agenda it was well-hidden. He was solemnly formal with the three younger O'Musca boys, shaking their paws in turn, and had complements for the Greys in their capacity as Martin's spiritual guides.

They set up the camera in the kitchen. It was the focal point of most of the family's activities, besides being the largest room in the house. And the burly badger stated that he liked the way it felt, and said it would give the interview just that touch of hominess he thought would go over well. He and Martin sat near each other, across one corner of the table, and basically shot the breeze for an hour. Martin gave his impressions of the attack, what he had seen, how he had felt when he realized that he (and his girlfriend – he could hardly help but mention Samantha) might actually die, what he had done in response and how he'd done it, and wrapped it up with what could best be termed a short eulogy to Michael Truefoot. Mr. Turnaud's questions were brief and open-ended, and his thoughts on Martin's comments pithily astute. At one point, Martin attributed much of his facility with things mechanical to his tutelage under his employer. He recommended apprenticeship to anyone who was interested in the concept.

"You graduated from high school a year early, didn't you?"

"Aye. Me Mum schooled me at home through the seventh grade, then I put in a year at the middle school. When I transferred to the high school, the entrance exams placed me half-way through Sophomore year."

"How were your grades?"

"I made a 'B+' in Microbiology in me Junior year, an' a 'C' in Sociology as a Senior. In all the other classes, I received an 'A'."

"Really? So you and Sociology just didn't click?"

"No, Sir, that wasn't it. 'Twas me teacher that I didn't 'click' with." His eye took on a rebellious glint. "I liked the subject jist fine, but he was bound and determined that we'd all _'see the light'_ an' be good little Communists by year's end, an' he graded us on th' philosophical leanin' of our papers, not jist on th' mechanics or how well we did th' research. I swear, if I had …" He paused, sat back and cleared his throat. "Well, 'twould not be charitable to say jist what I thought about that. We didn' see eye-to-eye, ye might say."

Mr. Turnaud laughed heartily at Martin's comments. "I'll bet. You strike me as a young fur who knows his own mind."

"I try to keep as open a mind as I can, an' pay close attention to th' facts. Those as theorize without havin' anythin' o' substance t' back up their ideas, or those, sich as him, who flat _ignore_ th' history of his subject, doon't impress me much."

"So, how'd you do on your Revised Entrance Battery?"

"Thirty-nine-twenty-eight." The mouse chuckled. "They don' have that much in th' way o' subjective questions on th' REB, so I did fehr."

Mr. Turnaud whistled. "That's impressive! That's … let's see … out of four thousand …"

"Ninety-eight point two percent."

"Well! With a score like that I imagine you'll have your choice of colleges to attend."

"Eh. That'll depend more on th' financial aid department, I figure," he responded wryly. "We'll have t' wait an' see."

They talked amiably for the duration of the interview. Alan felt a grudging respect for the way the older fur conducted the meeting, and had high hopes of a positive outcome when the interview was aired. The camera-fur packed up his equipment and took it all out to the van while Mr. Turnaud said his goodbyes. He told them that his editorial team would be going through it first thing in the morning, and that he intended for it to be ready for the viewing public by the weekend.

And then they left.

##


	21. Chapter 3 Rebound Part B

**_Chapter Three – Rebound – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Monday 07 November 2016, late evening **_

Brightlimb Stephens put the finishing touches on the latest firewall program he had crafted, and inserted it into the test server. There, it would be put through its paces as every worm and virus he could lay his paws on tried to penetrate its perimeter. Most hack programs these days were adaptive, mutating on the fly to overcome electronic defenses, and the algorithms for the defensive programs had to be just as canny. Brightlimb had quite a knack for this sort of work, and many of the large corporations headquartered in the Northeast used his consulting firm as an adjunct to their own IT departments.

Knowing that it would likely be hours before the test was complete, the lean collie padded down the stairs to the kitchen to see about some supper. He and his mate both ate sparingly most of the time. It helped his diabetes, and helped her focus in her meditations. For his mate, Faye, was a Seer, blessed with second sight, a legacy of her Romany forebears. As often as not she would receive visions during her meditations, and much more often than not, they would be fairly accurate. Her track record was good enough that the coven (and many of their other acquaintances, for that matter) frequently relied on her guidance.

He paused in front of the heavy curtain that hung over the entrance to her meditation room. He knew she was in there; he could smell the pungent incense she always used. She'd been thus employed all day, and much of the previous three, and it bothered him. It wasn't so much that he was worried about her well-being, exactly. She knew her limits. But he was intensely curious about the subject of her meditations. For it to occupy this much of her attention meant that it held grave import, one way or another. This was particularly true since she'd also spent the three days following the celebration of the Samhain Sabbat the previous week in the same manner. It wasn't like her to stretch herself so thin, and the urge to do so meant that she was deeply concerned about the message she hoped to receive.

He closed his eyes, clasped his paws in front of his chest, and cleared his mind. The ghostly images came easily, echoing from her thought stream to his, but they made no more sense to him this evening than they usually did. Part of her gift was the interpretation of the visions. Without the context, they were little more than a disparate jumble. He sighed and continued on down the hall.

##

_** later still **_

Brightlimb closed his book and put it on the side table as soon as Faye walked into the den. The petite Dalmatian femme looked more than a little distressed, and he rose to hold her, concern written on his own features. She molded immediately, and with obvious relief, into his embrace, and gave a long sigh.

He asked, "Anything I can help you with, Love?"

She didn't respond for several seconds, but then shrugged slightly and shook her head once. "I just wish I could make some real sense of it all."

"Can you speak of it yet?"

"I think so. I couldn't before. It was too … too inconsistent. But yes." She looked up into his eyes. "Yes. I would like to share what I know." She laughed wryly. "What little I know."

He led her to the couch and got them comfortably arranged, with her feet drawn up under her white, floor-length gown, and her head against his chest. He stroked her long, black headfur while she related her visions. They centered, somehow, on a vixen who had recently moved into the area. Or perhaps it was her house that was the focus of the seeing. Or both. But the vixen was definitely involved.

"Do you have her name?"

"No. Only an image. She is quite beautiful, mature but not old. She is alone most of the time." Faye slowly stroked the fur on the back of his paw, silent for a short stretch. "She is frightened. She hides her fear from … from her friend? Her companion? There may be more than one. That is not clear. But the fear is with her constantly."

"What has frightened her?"

"I could not see it, not to the point of … of recognition. But what I _could_ see was the danger … the threat of conflict? … the growing doom? … the gathering storm?" She seemed to be searching for the right words. Her family had moved to New England from Macedonia the month she turned nineteen, and although her studies in the decade since had made her proficient under most circumstances, English was not her first language. Brightlimb certainly didn't mind: her accent turned him on. "There is … she is a target, I believe."

"A target? What does that mean?"

"There is … an animus. An ill intent. Someone or something that wishes her harm."

"Truly? And yet you can't see who?"

"No. But Bri …" She trailed off, still wrestling with the words. "That's the source of much of my discomfort. Sometimes I think it is a fur … or … or maybe what was once a fur? I know that makes no sense, but there it is. And other times I am sure it is … like nothing alive." She sighed deeply. "I feel that if this were a sending from the Goddess it would be a lot more distinct, so probably I'm just picking up leakage from the spirit itself. With that in mind, how can I know its truth or deception?" He could tell how vexing this was for her. Normally, her visions were much easier to interpret.

"Huh. Well … Do you know where the house is?"

"No. Not really." The frustration leaked through in her voice. "But it is huge, and old, and not far from here."

"Huge?" Something tugged at the string of a memory. "How huge is huge?"

"Bigger than you'd expect any house to be. It's big enough to be a small hotel. The picture I have of the house is fairly clear. Three stories topped with copper, and there's this round tower at one corner, and a great, wide lawn in front."

Brightlimb was thinking, and thinking hard. A few puzzle pieces were floating into place. "Love, would you mind if I made a phone call?"

"A phone call?" She glanced over at the clock on the wall. "Why?"

"I need some … I need to verify something with Alan Grey."

She frowned in doubt. "That Christian minister? For what?"

"I may know the name of your vixen. But I'd like to ask him a few questions first."

"Oh! That would be a lot of help." She seemed somewhat relieved by that revelation. "Please do so. I'll wait here. But try not to be long. There's more to tell."

It did not take many minutes to confirm with Pastor Grey that Faye's description matched Ash Creek Inn perfectly. Alan was fascinated by this information. "And you say she saw this in a vision?"

"That's right. She has the gift."

"And it's reliable?"

"Most of the time. But usually the Goddess sends her the visions. She doesn't think this one is, which would account for the lack of details."

"I don't know. Seems like she got enough detail to be useful."

"That's true." He paused briefly and said, "Pastor Grey, I wonder if you'd answer another question for me."

"It's Alan. And sure, I'd be glad to."

"Okay." He took a moment to collect his thoughts. "My parents were well outside the mainstream, spiritually. They never really codified what they believed, not even to the extent of putting a label on it, but it certainly didn't have anything to do with the Judeo-Christian ethic that is most common in this country."

"That doesn't really surprise me."

Brightlimb chuckled. "I didn't think it would. But that's not the point. I've not had many contacts with Christians – not that turned out in a positive way, that is – and haven't really spent much time studying your faith. But from what little I know of it, visions aren't a … an accepted form of worship. Is that correct?"

"Um … that would kind of depend on what you mean by 'vision'. There are some denominations that receive a word of prophecy almost every time they gather. Most of us at Mercy Chapel don't consider ourselves to be 'charismatic' in that sense …"

"I've heard that term!"

"Charismatic?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Anyway, we don't call ourselves charismatic, but we do have a praise service on Thursday nights that can get pretty impassioned, and we have had members to get a visitation of the Spirit. The Lord does use that method from time to time in certain situations, but we don't consider prophecy an _indispensable_ part of worship. Everything we really need for guidance in faith and practice is in the Bible, and that's where we really ought to look." He chuckled. "If we'd just pay attention to what it says, that is."

"Now that's something that has confused me for years!"

"What?"

"How do you tell whether a Christian is really a Christian?"

"Well …"

"See, a few years ago, when we lived in another state, I had this neighbor – neighbors, really – who lived down the street, and they had some sort of affiliation with one of the local churches."

"Is he the one you'd mentioned before?"

"Yes, when you called me."

"Okay."

"I think their church was called Independent … Mission or Missionary … Something-Or-Other. Don't think I ever caught the name, now that I think about it. Doesn't matter. I never was completely sure if they were members, or just friends with a lot of the other members, and I didn't ask. Didn't feel like it was my business. Anyway, they were nice to us. Older couple, Mike and Jenny, he was already retired. Came to visit when we moved in, invited us over to their house, and we had dinner back and forth a few times. They asked about our religious leanings – again, nothing obnoxious or self-righteous, just because they were genuinely curious – and we were very open about our commitment to Paganism. They listened, and seemed like they understood most of what we said. But, you see, after everything was said and done, it didn't make any _difference_ in our _friendship_. We didn't try to push our beliefs on them, and they didn't try to convert us, either. They did let us know that we'd be welcome at their church if we decided to come, but really just left it at that."

"Sounds like they figured that you were satisfied with your relationship to God."

"They did, yes. And we appreciated that respect."

"But your context tells me that there might be more to this story."

"Believe it! It was maybe two months, tops, after we moved in that we were over at their place when another couple from the church dropped in. We were introduced, and they invited us to the service on Sunday. I remember it was a Friday evening, and they offered to pick us up. We said 'no thanks', but it was like they didn't hear us. And they wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. I told him that we were Wiccan, but I don't think they really had any idea what that meant. You could tell they'd heard the term, and stuck their own interpretations on it, just by the way they reacted. The guy pulled out some little booklet and started shaking it at me, and rattling off a bunch of verses of religious text."

Alan snickered. "How thoughtful of him."

"Yeah. I let them know in no uncertain terms that we were happy with our faith, and didn't feel any need to explore what they had to offer, and then they started talking a lot of trash about our being damned to hell if we didn't repent, and how we'd be facing some kind of eternal judgment if we didn't 'get right with God'. I mean they got right up in our faces with it."

"Ah-huh. Welcome to the community."

"Or something. We left, and they didn't follow us."

"Charitable of them."

"Well, here's the kicker. I found out a few weeks later that the leaders in that church got together and booted our friends right out of the club."

"Ex_cuse_ me?"

"Uh-huh. Told the rest of the members not to have anything to do with them. I heard about it from a fellow I worked with."

"They were excommunicated?"

"If that's what you call it. The rest of the church shunned them."

"Not a very forgiving bunch, were they?"

"No. That night, after I found out, we went over to their place to see if there was anything we could do for them. It was easy to tell that they were pretty shaken up. But then, I probably would be too, in their position. So there we were, trying to do what might be done in the way of comforting, when a group from the church shows up on their front porch."

"Uh-oh."

"They'd come to offer Mike and Jenny a chance to 'repent' or something. Mike let them know what he thought of their methods. Well, they had themselves a real, live shouting match. The bunch from the church denounced us to our faces as agents of evil – _evil_, they said, and they were completely serious – and told our friends they were no kind of Christians if they 'consorted with heathens'."

"Oh, for goodness' sake! I wonder if those people had even _read_ the Bible they professed to believe in!"

"I wouldn't know. I've read very little of it myself. Jenny started crying, and Mike told 'em off, but good. Ended up by telling them that they didn't have any concept of what it meant to be a Christian, and that they had no love in their hearts, and he'd be 'pleased and proud' to have nothing to do with them in the future."

Alan winced inside at the level of ill will that little demonstration must have caused, and could only shake his head in wonder. "My word. That's, um … quite a story."

"Yes," agreed Brightlimb. "It is. And it illustrates my point. There they were, everybody on both sides claiming to be Christian, and denying that the others were, and how am I supposed to be able to tell what's what? There's no formal code of behavior, at least none I've been able to fathom. From what I've seen, anyone can make the claim of being a Christian without having to back it up in the way he lives his life, and no one can say any different! I mean, some of the … the most _difficult_ furs I've ever met said they were Christians!"

"Yeah." Alan sighed. "The fruits of the Spirit can be a little hard to spot in some furs."

"The what?"

"Fruits of the Spirit. The results of spending time with God. Anyone who gives himself over to God in complete trust is supposed to grow in his Christian walk." He chuckled wryly. "That's involved with that code of behavior you mentioned."

"Huh!" That _really_ touched a nerve in the Wiccan. "He's supposed to become more like Jesus, isn't that right?"

"That's the idea."

"Well, frankly, present company excepted, Mike and Jenny are the only Christians I ever met who behaved at all like what I've heard of the Christ."

"That's not the first time I've heard _that_, either. The Church can be its own worst enemy sometimes."

"But look! Spiritual development is at the very _heart_ of the Craft! Personal growth is pretty much a given with us. If you aren't coming closer to the Divine, you're wasting your time."

"That holds true with Christians as well. The specific characteristics we should look for are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control."

"Uh-huh." Brightlimb was skeptical. "Sounds like a worthy goal. How many make it?"

Alan laughed ruefully. "Not nearly as many as I'd like. A Christian is a 'work-in-progress' as it were, and some of us need a lot more work than others." He cleared his throat and said, "This particular situation doesn't sound like one that's covered in the standards, though."

"I'd say not." He paused again, searching for the right words. "I guess … I guess what I'm really trying to say is that you seem … um, unusually complacent about Faye's gift."

"How's that?"

"Well … you mentioned 'charismatic' congregations."

"Yes. So?"

"They are the ones that commune directly with the Spirit?"

"Any Christian can commune directly with the Spirit," he replied, a grin evident in his voice, "but I know what you mean by that question. Yes, for purposes of this discussion, they get messages of encouragement or reproach or personal guidance, frequently through direct revelation."

"Very well. Are the churches that have 'Pentecostal' somewhere in their name the ones … um, would they be considered charismatic?"

"Usually. From what I've seen of them, I'd say so. That also applies generally to churches that refer to themselves as 'Full Gospel' or 'Church of God' or 'Holiness'."

"Okay." The collie paused in thought for a moment. "Really, though, it doesn't sound much different from what I've experienced in my encounters with the Divine."

"Ah-huh. Well, I don't claim to be an expert, but from what I've _read_ of Wiccan practice, on a personal and subjective level, there may be little practical difference in the experience itself."

"That's what I thought."

"All right. So?"

Brightlimb sighed. "So you'd think, wouldn't you, that given all the similarities, a charismatic gathering would be a little more accepting of something that so closely approaches their own form of worship! But that wasn't the case at all, at least as far as two churches around here were concerned."

"Really? They get on your case about it?"

"And how. Do you have any ideas as to why they reacted so strongly?"

"Which churches did you say they were?"

"One of them is called …" and here he drew a breath, "'The First Middlebury Reorganized Pentecostal Church of the Apostolic Advent in the Faith of Abraham'. I remembered it because the name is so long and the building they use is so tiny."

Alan laughed out loud at that. "I know what you mean! I saw one down in Georgia one time where the church might have held twenty furs, if they didn't mind being cozy with each other, and the name ran to three lines on the sign. And it was a pretty big sign." He chuckled again. "With a name like the one you mentioned, I doubt there will be a 'Second' such congregation."

"Heh. Anyway, I think the other one is called 'Holy Brothers' or something like that. I don't really remember. They only contacted us once, but once was certainly enough."

"Could it be 'The Society of Holy Brethren'?"

"Yeah! That sounds right. You know them?"

"I know of the _churches_, but I don't know either of those pastors, no. And I'm not terribly conversant with Pentecostal doctrine, so I could only hazard a guess. But it's probably because they considered the source of your spiritual visitations to be demonic rather than deific."

Brightlimb arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. The rationale behind salvation in Christianity is not 'what you do' or 'what you know', but 'Who you know'."

Brightlimb pulled up short and thought, _Is that how you feel, too?_ But he held his tongue. He had the beginnings of a friendship with this Christian, and he didn't want to say anything to destroy it this early in the journey. Besides, he needed to get back to Faye. "I see."

Alan continued, "I'd like to talk about it with you some time. I suppose you could say that I've got a fairly unique position on that issue."

The collie found himself _most_ intrigued by that statement. "Well! I don't really have the time right now, but I'll consult my calendar tomorrow and give you a call. I'd very much like to have that talk."

Brightlimb said his goodbyes and returned to the den. Faye was in her meditative position on the floor in front of the couch. He sat down next to her.

"I was right. The femme in your vision is Wendy Wylde."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "And who is she?"

"Someone who moved here last summer. She inherited a nineteenth-century lodge-house from a relative, and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast. I described what you saw, and Pastor – that is, _Alan_ – said it was as accurate a description of Ash Creek Inn as he could have given. He's been out there, so he's seen it."

"Where is it?"

"North of New Haven, about fifteen or twenty klicks from here."

Faye asked, "Does he know her?"

"Yes, but not very well. She was the one he talked about when he called to give us that warning last month."

"Oh! And _was_ she attacked?"

"She was. But it came to nothing. The group that went after her was caught in the act. They spent some time in jail, according to Alan, and most of them are out on bail until the trial. Two of them were deemed a risk to the community, though, and they're still being held."

"So they were just some misguided furs? No spiritual manifestations?"

"None whatsoever. Alan was there when it happened."

Faye considered that information for a while. Then she said, "What I can't understand, then, is why I'm getting these visions. How do I figure into Ms. Wylde's life?"

"I can't think of any reason."

"It's just strange. I've never had this happen before. Always, it's a member of the coven, or someone who came to me for help. Never just a random seeing!"

Her mate nodded. "Most odd."

"Yes. To say the least." Her voice got smaller. "It wants her."

"What?"

"It wants her. That presence I told you about."

Brightlimb realized that she'd segued back into the particulars of the vision. "Oh. In what way?"

She snorted softly. "Not for anything good. I think it knows her, and knows her well, though I don't know how. And I think … I think it is coming for her."

"How sure of that are you?"

"I'm not. I can't be anywhere _close_ to positive, given the nature of the seeing, but that's the way it feels. I'll tell you what I _am_ sure of, though. I'm sure _she'll_ want to know."

He didn't think much of that notion. "Don't you think she'd be upset if we just call her up out of the blue with this? She might not even believe us. This is pretty heavy knowledge. And Alan said she was firmly non-religious."

She threw up a paw in frustration. "Oh, I don't know! _I'd_ want to know, were I standing on her feet."

"Even if it's a false reading?"

"Better safe than sorry. She can take some precautions, and that won't hurt anything, even if _it_ never gets to her."

He said, gently, "I'm not sure the rest of the coven would approve."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "_Bother_ the coven! Papa never had any need of coven approval."

Brightlimb could well understand the reasons for that, and thought the comparison hardly fair. He had met Faye's father only twice, but twice had been plenty. Nicu Porr was an imposing – yea verily, a _frightening_ – figure, not because of his size or demeanor, but because of the tremendous arcane force that lay in those deep, black eyes of his. The old Dalmatian had several items of power, and a profound knowledge of the Romany magicks of his ancestors. He had no compunction about using it if he thought it necessary. None in the slightest.

He didn't answer her outburst, but simply held her and stroked her for several minutes, quietly tuning his spirit to hers, sending her soft waves of love and support. He knew her gift was not an easy one to bear. Presently he felt her relax.

She spoke again, her voice low. "I'm sorry, Bri. That was a foolish thing to say."

"Don't give it a second thought, Love. I know you have her best interests at heart."

She was quiet for another span of seconds, and then said, "There's more."

"Yes?"

"This … presence … it is not near. It will not be here soon. But it is growing, gaining strength somehow. And … " What she said next chilled him. "It is … it is old."

"Old?"

"That's what I get. It is old. Very, _very_ old. Very old, and very … well … _hungry_."

Brightlimb felt his hackles stiffen. "What does _that_ mean?"

"I wish I knew." She looked up at him, her dark, soulful brown eyes full of doubt and pain. "I've not … not felt this sort of presence before." She wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes I … it … I know this sounds funny, but it fouls the incense, and then the vision will blur out. I get this feeling of decay, of something that may once have been good, but has gone bad … something that has … twisted." She shuddered. "If ill will could be personified, I think that is what I've been watching." She buried her face in his chest, muffling her voice. "It makes me want to wash."

He held her tightly and considered what their responsibilities might be. If this … _entity_ were really and truly on its way, with malevolent intentions toward Ms. Wylde, then yes, she needed to know. Something should be done, if Faye's vision was accurate. But his mate was usually so much firmer in her interpretations, so much more exact in the details. He couldn't decide what the right course should be on such limited information. He gave her a reassuring squeeze and said, "So what do you suppose our next step should be?"

She didn't say anything for a moment, then shook herself and turned her face to his. "I … guess maybe we should talk to Rhiannon."

"All right." Rhiannon Greengage, a vole whose family traced its lineage back to the early Welsh peerage, was the coven's Priestess. "That sounds good. She'll want to read the tiles. Probably call a Circle."

Faye's muzzle twisted. "Uh-huh. To see whether we have any 'just cause' for 'meddling' in someone else's business." She glanced at her mate and then gave a wry chuckle. "I know. 'Don't be such a firebrand.' That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"It's that fiery Romany heritage. You wouldn't be my Faye if you didn't have a little spark."

She gave his arm a squeeze and nuzzled up against him, yawning as she did so. "I love you, you know."

"I love you back."

"Are you ready for bed?"

"Mm-hmm. I was just waiting up for you." He picked up her contagion and yawned himself. "Can calling Rhiannon wait for the morning?"

"Absolutely. I'm really tired." She rose gracefully to her feet and held out a paw. "I need a clear head before I can talk to anyone else about this. Let's get some sleep."

He took her paw and got to his own feet, then swept her up into his arms. "Allow me."

She laughed lightly as he carried her to their room.

##


	22. Chapter 3 Rebound Part C

**_Chapter Three – Rebound – Part C_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Tuesday 08 November 2016, 10:45pm **_

Karl finished calibrating the last of the detectors he'd placed in the vicinity of Ash Creek Inn, and ran through a system diagnostic to check how the various components interacted. The data he'd given Wendy on the security setup was all strictly true … technically … as far as it went. But he'd left out the details on the full extent of the system. He had carefully excluded information about the infrared units; or the ultrasonic motion detectors; or the pressure sensors on all the downstairs windowsills; or the full extent of the ground covered by the cameras; or the fact that in addition to her choice of silent alarm or local klaxon, the system would send Karl a signal whether she had anything turned on or not. If she'd known all that, she'd have pestered him until he told her why, and that simply would not do. He couldn't justify increasing her stress over the situation, just because he wasn't about to take any chances with her safety.

The software he'd coded to run this show screened out normal fauna – that is, the birds and small critters that were _supposed_ to be in the forest – so that only something (specifically, some_one_) who had no business being there would trigger his alarm. Each unit was well-camouflaged, and out of reach of any normal fur. He waited a couple of minutes until the diagnostic program completed its task, and then ran a secondary scan of the whole thing. When he was completely satisfied it would do what he wanted it to do, he linked the program output to his primary PA, and to the computer in his truck. Then he fixed himself a light snack consisting of most of a roasted chicken, two liters of chocolate milk, and three apples, and got ready for bed. He was well pleased with his setup, and anticipated a good night's sleep.

##

_** deep night **_

_. . . . . At Samantha's request, Wendy had arrived at the church early. The younger vixen wanted to make sure everything was perfect, including the food at the reception, and Wendy had been more than happy to oblige her. It was the least she could do for Samantha, since her own parents had thrown her out for getting knocked up by a __**dormouse**__, of all things . . . . ._

**{ wait! knocked up? that's not right! and her parents love Martin! }**

_. . . . . Wendy had offered to host the wedding at the Inn, but Martin favored holding the ceremony at Mercy Chapel, and since he was the pastor there . . . . ._

**{ what? hang on! that's not right either! what happened to Alan? }**

_. . . . . Wendy turned an eye to the sky, where heavy gray clouds had been building all morning. It was unseasonably cool for mid-May, and she hoped rain wouldn't ruin the festivities. She walked up to the front entrance, pushing open the tall, blood-red doors . . . . ._

**{ huh? red? when did they do that? }**

_. . . . . The windowless building was very dark inside, and she gripped each pew as she walked down the center aisle. Martin stood on the dais where the lectern usually sat, a low brazier to either side. She could see the glowing coals in each, and the insulated end of a running iron . . . . ._

**{ what the hell is going on here? this is all wrong! }**

_. . . . . There were two figures kneeling before him. Wendy thought one of them was Sam, but who was the other femme? She looked up at Martin, shocked by the fiercely cruel expression on his normally pleasant features. He reached over to his left and pulled the shining iron from the brazier._

"_With this bond, I thee wed," he intoned, and jammed the hot metal deep into the flesh of Samantha's throat. She gurgled briefly in pain, but did not move away. He yanked it free and tossed it aside, watching in satisfaction as she slowly crumpled into a heap on the floor. Blood began to soak the carpet. The other femme started visibly to shudder._

_Wendy screamed at him to stop, but she may as well have remained mute for all the notice he took of her. He reached to his right and pulled the other iron from the coals._

"_And with this bond, I thee wed." He thrust the glowing point into the other figure's throat, and she jerked and turned her face away and it was . . . . ._

_. . . . . It was Wendy._

_Wendy found that she couldn't move. Her legs were like stumps in a field. She could only watch as her doppelganger toppled over and breathed its last. Martin stepped off the dais, drawing a long, red knife as he approached her. "And now that the main course has arrived, we can start the celebration." His eyes began to glow the same color as the coals in the braziers and he stepped up to her and grinned and she realized he wasn't Martin and he placed the knife's edge across her throat and pressed it in and slid it slowly and deliberately sideways and the bite of the steel was so very, very cold . . . . ._

It was the sudden contact of her rump with the floor that awakened the vixen. She'd gotten the sheets so thoroughly twisted in her thrashing that one end had wrapped around her neck, and it pulled painfully when she fell off the bed. She quickly tore it loose, then staggered to her feet, looking groggily around the room. No braziers. No demonic mouse. No bloody knife.

She drew a few deep breaths and padded toward the bathroom as she stripped off her nightgown. By now she knew the routine: she was totally drenched with sweat and would require a bath and some new sheets before returning to bed. It would take at least that long to get her mind into some semblance of quiet. She also knew from sad experience that the day to follow would be a long one indeed.

##

Brightlimb came awake with a start when he heard Faye cry out. He rolled over instinctively to protect her, and realized she was having a bad dream. Quickly he calmed himself, then reached out to her mind to do the same for her.

_Ragged._ There was no other word for it.

This was a bad one. He decided that pulling her out of it took precedence over simply calming her down, and he began calling her name softly, squeezing her paws and kissing her eyes in between. Shortly she rewarded him with a flutter of eyelids and a soft moan. She focused on him, called his name, and clung to him, sobbing.

He held his mate and rocked her, thinking, _Rhiannon is going to have to do something about this, and soon!_

##

_** Thursday 10 November 2016, 11:45am **_

Wendy felt quite encouraged over her new helper's abilities. "Okay, that's good! Good! Now, take the colander and … yes. Just like that."

The young femme feline executed the transfer to the stock pot with a measure of grace and assurance. She set the colander in the sink and said, "And now I add the marjoram and celery seed to the penne and toss it with the olive oil, right?"

"Right! Very good. I think you'll work out fine, Patty." She watched with approval as the girl finished the final steps.

"Thanks, ma'am – I-I mean, Wendy." She grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I keep forgettin'."

"No problem. Think you can manage the leeks and potatoes?"

"You bet!"

"Well, that's fine." Wendy shrugged out of her 'mobius' apron. "I've got a couple of calls to make, but I'll be back in twenty or thirty."

"Okay." Patty arranged the large cutting board on the counter and went to the crisper for the vegetables as Wendy trotted out of the kitchen.

She had reached her office and was looking up the number for the bank's main branch when the front doorbell chimed. Frowning slightly, she hurried out to the Main Hall and into the foyer, where she peeked through the peep-hole.

The small group on the front porch gave her seriously to study for a few seconds. While they did not seem overtly dangerous, she didn't know any of them, and recent events had made her skittish. She took another look at them: three femmes, all apparently of non-carnivorous sub-species. The tiny vole in front held a ridiculously ornate staff, a silver-and-ebony thing about a meter and a half long, but it looked nothing like a weapon. It was more like a movie prop. The large, dark blue crystal at its upper tip overtopped the vole's head by a pawspan at least. Wendy shrugged to herself, closed the doors from the foyer to the Main Hall, and eased the front door open a crack.

"Good day. Can I help you?"

The femme vole held out a languid paw. "You are Wendy Wylde." It was not a question.

"Uh … yeah, that's me. What's this about?"

"A matter of some urgency. May we come in?"

Wendy wasn't ready to move aside just yet. "Who are you?"

"My name is Rhiannon Greengage." She inclined her head toward the others. "This is May Swift, and Niorella Darkfyre." The brown hare and the dark-gray squirrel nodded in turn. "And we are here because of information we have recently received."

"Ah … um … are you, uh …" Wendy zoned out for a couple of seconds. A small feral squirrel had poked its nose from under Niorella's long, wavy headfur, and then hopped out to sit on her shoulder. "…that is … are you selling something?"

"No."

"Passing out tracts, then?"

"No. We are not selling, bartering, preaching, proselytizing, or attempting to persuade you about anything. But we have knowledge that we determined you would think important, and we would like to share it with you … if you wish. It is up to you."

"Uh-huh. Okay." Keeping her eyes on the squirrel, she stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come on in." She led the short parade over to the Parlor, where she got them seated, and ascertained that they did not require anything to drink.

"No, Wendy, we know you probably have many other tasks vying for your attention. We only mean to stay long enough to tell you what we know. "

"O-o-o-o-o-kay. And that would be what?"

"A few days ago, one of our number …"

Wendy held up a paw. "One of _'your number'_? What's that mean?"

"One of our group."

"And what group is that?" she asked, eyeing the staff.

"We, ah, belong to a group of like-minded individuals who … gather to explore certain of the lesser-known aspects of the spiritual world. One of our companions is gifted with second sight."

"Second sight? What do you mean? Like fortune telling?"

"I wouldn't characterize it quite that way. She receives messages from the spirit world."

Wendy jerked back as several internal alarm bells went off with a vengeance. "You mean you're a _cult?__"_ She shot to her feet and jammed a stiff finger toward the front of the house. "Get the hell out!"

Rhiannon sighed and stood. "It saddens me that you feel that way, but it is your right not to understand. You certainly aren't the first."

As the other two stood to follow her, the feral squirrel chattered briefly. Niorella said, "It's not our business, Jip. She's not interested."

Wendy's eyes got round as she watched the exchange. She held out a paw and said, "Wait!"

They paused and looked at her.

Staring at the squirrel femme, she said, "You … you can talk to him, can't you?"

Niorella nodded once. "What of it?"

"How long have you been able to do that?"

The slightest of smiles curled the back of her muzzle. "Since shortly after getting to know Rhiannon. Some five years." She reached up and lightly scratched the little squirrel between his ears. "But Jip here is only two."

"What'd he say?"

"That we should give you the warning whether you want to hear it or not."

Wendy took a few hesitant steps closer, watching the feral. She asked him, "Can you understand me?"

The little animal glanced back and forth between Wendy and Niorella a few times, and then chattered at his counterpart for nearly ten seconds. Niorella got a startled look on her own face, and told Rhiannon, "Jip says she has the Gift."

Rhiannon blinked a few times and turned back to face Wendy. "Really? Is this true?"

Wendy gave her a guarded look. "Are you asking if I can communicate with ferals?"

"Yes. Can you?"

"… I can. With one, anyway."

"Then you are more attuned to the spirit world than I'd been led to believe."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Those ferals who have attained the measure of awareness necessary to contact us do so through a connection with the astral plane. It is one of the spirit planes."

"Uh … if you say so. I don't know anything about planes or spirits or any of that stuff. All I know is that I hear his voice in my head. And he can hear me, whether I speak or not." She gestured at Rhiannon. "Can you do it, too?"

"I don't know. My grandfather could, but I've never met any feral voles around here, and I've not yet made the pilgrimage back to my ancestral home." She indicated the hare femme. "May has the Gift, as she found out on a journey out West. But Niorella is the only fur I know who has formed a bond with a particular feral."

"Huh. I know one. Knew one, that is."

"Really? Who?"

"No one you'd know, I'm pretty sure. I doubt you'd want to." She cleared her throat and swallowed, then said, "Is that how you found out about … um … by the way, just what is it that you came to tell me, anyway? You never said."

Rhiannon regarded her calmly. "May we sit down?"

"Yes. Please. I'm sorry I mouthed off at you like that. My, uh, ex-husband got tangled up in some creepy New Age cult, and it drove him over the edge, and that's the first thing that popped into my head when you said what you did." She frowned slightly and looked Rhiannon in the eye. "_Are_ you a cult?"

"That depends upon what you mean by 'cult'. Most of the world's mainstream religions regard all the others as cults."

"Oh … well, okay then … _are_ you a religion?"

Rhiannon let slip a small grin. "That depends upon what you mean by 'religion'?"

"_Oh, for!_ … Look, do you – um – like, when you get together, is it for worship?"

"Sometimes, yes. But your usage and connotations probably lead you to a conclusion that is very different from reality. You might be surprised by what we mean by that word."

"Uh-huh." Wendy was getting uncomfortable with the direction the topic was heading. "Whatever. As long as I don't have to take part in any of it."

"Wendy, believe me, that is the furthest thing from our minds." She leaned forward and fixed the vixen with her stare. "Frankly, it is not that easy to join us. If you are deeply interested, interested enough to pursue our path diligently _on your own_, I might consider teaching you some of our traditions."

Wendy held up both paws. "Oh, no! None for me, thanks."

"And that's perfectly fine with us. We consider it an insult to other rational beings for someone to want to try to convince them of the rightness of a single path. Your path is not mine, and is none of my business."

"Great. So what's the big, important news?"

Rhiannon settled in to tell her tale.

##


	23. Chapter 3 Rebound Part D

**_Chapter Three – Rebound – Part D_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Saturday 12 November 2016, 7:55pm **_

Samantha, burdened with a large bowl of popcorn and two sodas, hurried back into her room and pushed the door shut with her hip. Drew jumped up and relieved her of one of the drinks. "Ooo! Root beer! Great!"

"Yeah, we had a couple left." She settled herself in front of the old plasma screen and took a pawful of the popcorn. "I figured you'd like that better than the diet Pepsi or the ginger ale."

"Diet! Yuck!" Drew tilted her head back and took a swig, brushing one long ear back over her shoulder. The shapely lop rabbit was nearly three years Samantha's senior, but they were in the same grade at the arts-based magnet school they attended. Though different species, the two girls shared almost identical fur patterns. Drew's white chest blaze edged a couple of centimeters farther up the side of her neck than did Samantha's, but other than that they might have been sisters. "Twin daughters of different mothers", as they sometimes put it.

The rerun of the old syndicated sitcom wrapped up the loose ends of its contrived plot, and the commercials began.

"When's he gonna be on?"

"Beats me. He told me it was one of the segments, but not which one."

Drew pulled a pillow off Samantha's bed, folded it in half, and used it to pad her back as she leaned against the side of the bed frame. "Maybe he'll be first. I wanna watch 'Seascapes' in half an hour."

Samantha just shrugged. "We got a TV in the den if you feel like you have to. _I'm_ watching Martin."

"Oh, don't get all huffy. I'll watch him with you, even if he's dead last."

An older fur, a sincere-looking lion with a carefully-coiffed mane, deep, penetrating eyes and a deeper voice, introduced the 'Modern Heroes' series and gave a brief outline of the show's format. The view segued to a busy dock. The first segment covered a day in the lives of a bomb squad that worked in the Port of Newark. Back in the summer, a terrorist sniper had killed two of them while they were busy disarming a bomb, and the program focused on the efforts (eventually successful) to capture those responsible.

The second segment was a general discussion with the celebrated psychiatrist, Dr. Beaumont Wolff, concerning the importance of trauma recovery methods in the aftermath of a violent attack, and the outstanding progress of one of his patients, kidnapping victim Clarisse Jensen. With her father, Oregon Governor Mark Jensen, she had granted a brief interview from Dr. Wolff's office. She didn't look too bad, considering what she'd been through. The left side of her face didn't quite keep track with the right side, the result of the torture she had gone through at the paws of her captors. But her outlook was positive, and she attributed much of that to Dr. Wolff's wonderful care.

The sincere lion came back on. He was holding a single sheet of paper in one paw, and gave the video audience a few seconds of penetrating stare. "As Dr. Wolff has noted, Miss Jensen's case is hardly unique. The annals of inter-species relations in our society have charted us a rocky road. At many points in the history of this great nation, certain groups were disenfranchised, mistreated, or even held as not fully furs in their own right."

His image faded out to be replaced by grainy, sepia-colored scenes of violence that changed as he changed topics. "Those people groups who were native to this continent when Europeans first landed; the hybrid classes that were held in bondage on the plantations of the old South, and cross-bred with each other to produce a ready stock of workers; the immigrants who came here in waves during the last century … all have faced bigotry and hatred, hardship and even death."

His face came back, and he repositioned himself to address a different camera. "Conventional wisdom states that much of this is in the past. Now, of course, our society is more 'enlightened', and we have laws that are intended to protect everyone. Certain fundamental rights, guaranteed to all in our Constitution, are precious to us, and we hold them very dear. Our courts, our statutes, are supposed to be blind in terms of the basic differences found throughout our population."

He tapped the paper with the forefinger of his other paw. "But conventional wisdom colors with a very broad brush; there are still those among us who flout our laws. They have no love in their hearts for their fellow-fur, allowing hatred to grow instead of charity, an implacable bigotry instead of tolerance." A cameo shot of Clarisse Jensen appeared in the background. "The group that kidnapped young Clarisse was made of just those types. But it was not an isolated incident, and that was not their only crime. Oh, no. Their network of hate spanned the continent, poisoning minds in more than half the states. In fact, while Clarisse was going through forty-seven hours of terror and torture, on the other side of the country a young dormouse named Martin O'Musca was experiencing much the same thing … at the paws of the _very same hate group_. And, like Clarisse, he was pulled from a situation that would have resulted in a grisly death." He paused for effect. "The Knights of the Pure Strain practiced cannibalism, and both of these young furs would _literally_ have been eaten, had they not been rescued.

"Martin suffered tremendous injury while being held at a primitive campsite out in a rural stretch of forest." The screen flipped to show a police file-film of the site of the Knights' bivouac. The view panned around to the oversized rotisserie, the blood-spattered pole, and the disabled vehicles. "He was beaten and burned, maimed and shot. He very nearly died. But through the miracles of modern medicine, he was restored to health, and made such a complete recovery that he was able to offer a paw in self-defense when the remnants of the purist group attacked the home of Vermont's Attorney General, the late Michael Truefoot.

"Now, Martin, as it turns out, is a modest fellow. It was only after much persuasion on our part that he agreed to this dialogue at all. The CEO of FurNet, Mr. Charles Turnaud, conducted the interview. This is what Mr. O'Musca had to say." The view faded out and back in to a wide shot of the O'Musca's rustic home. The scene opened on the imposing badger, chatting amiably with Martin in their kitchen. When the camera first flicked over to the mouse, Drew squealed, "Ooooo! He's cute!" She punched Samantha in the arm. "Sam, you've been holding out on me!"

"Nuh-uh! I told you that right after I met him!"

"Well, you said he was, like, attractive, but you didn't say … well … I mean, look at him!"

"I am. Now if you'll shut up, we can hear what he's saying."

The two girls watched the whole interview, pointing, commenting, arguing, and shushing each other the whole time. When it was over, Sam turned the screen off.

"You see now why I'm so stuck on this guy?"

"Uh-huh." Drew had been through several more-or-less intimate boyfriends, with all the breakup-related heartache that entails, and none of them, in her estimation, compared favorably with Sam's first (and thus far, only) real love interest. This fostered a definite streak of envy, which set her mind to work. After a few moments, she said, "Y'know, I'm thinking he might be more than you can manage by yourself."

Sam swung around to fix her gaze on the rabbit. "Come again?"

"Well, I figure he's gotta, like, come down to see you sometime, right?"

"Yeah, I hope so. So what?"

"So when he does, we could, like, get together. The three of us."

"The _three_ of us?"

"Yeah. To, like, fool around and stuff." And she gave Sam an exaggerated wink.

"Say _what?"_

"Look, Sam, you said he's never been with a girl, to, like, have sex, didn't you?

"Yes, but what …"

"And you're still a virgin, too."

"What's _that_ got to do with …"

"So you couldn't possibly have a clue how to, like, get _to_ a guy, see? That's where I can help, see? We'll do us a little threesome and get …"

"Now just you wait a goddam minute, Drew Ryctola!"

"… and get you both broken in at the same time! We'll do it up right, you'll see!" She gave a knowing nod. "I'll show you a couple tricks that'll make him hoot and yell."

"I don't need any stupid tricks! He wouldn't go for that anyway!" She jabbed a finger at her friend. "And you keep your paws _off_ Martin! He's _my_ boyfriend! _Mine_, not yours. You've never had any trouble attracting males, so you can just go get your own, if you want somebody to yiff around with."

Drew hunched against the side of the bed and pouted. "Sam, you are _no_ fun _at all_."

"Sharing my future husband with another girl doesn't sound like fun to me."

That brought a smile to Drew's muzzle. "That's just because you've never tried it."

"Cut it out, Drew! I'm serious!"

"Oh, good grief, Sam, I'm not sayin' I want to, like, share him on a _permanent_ basis! I just don't want you to miss out …"

"You mean _you_ don't want to miss out!"

"Hey, fair's fair. Share and share alike, I always say."

Sam threw up her paws. "That doesn't apply to _boyfriends!_"

"Like I said. You're no fun."

"Drop it, Drew. You'll never convince me there's anything good about _ménage à trois_, so you might as well stop trying." There was no room for misinterpretation in Samantha's expression. "Besides, if I recall correctly, isn't that how your mom …"

"Oh, all right, all right! You don't have to bring _that_ up." Her pout had returned. "Party pooper." She paused for a count of three. "So when d'you think he might, y'know, come to visit?"

Samantha's stormy glare made Drew put up both paws in defense. "Not for that, not for that! You two wanna stay all pristine and pure and stuff, be my guest. Geez! I just ask because if you wanna, like, double-date I'll need to, y'know, get somebody."

The dusky vixen calmed a little. "Okay, then. Double dating'll work. That would probably be fun."

"You know what kind of movies he likes?"

Samantha shrugged. "Some. He doesn't go to that many. His mom's stretched pretty thin, money-wise, even if Mr. Luscus does help 'em out now and then."

"Who?"

"The guy Martin works for. He's the one that popped that rotten purist on the noggin when he had a knife at my throat."

"Oh, yeah! You told me about him! He's a giant or something, isn't he?"

"Or something. He's kinda scary, if you get right down to it."

"My Algebra teacher is scary!"

"You got Mr. Manus, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"What's so scary about him?"

"He always wears the same suit! And that same stupid plaid bowtie!" Drew, who was quite the clotheshorse herself, shivered in disgust.

"That's not so bad. Now you take Miss Craw, my Biology teacher. She writes notes on the whiteboard with one paw and erases with the other. Ninety klicks a minute, that's her …"

And the conversation switched topics that way every ten or twenty seconds for the rest of the night.

##

_** Sunday 13 November 2016, 3:00pm **_

Middlebury College, although rather small, consistently ranked in the top fifty institutions of higher learning in the nation, and was rightfully proud of that fact. The faculty and staff had long realized the college's place of importance in both the community and the state, and went well out of their way to foster a spirit of cooperation and goodwill. Consequently, they made their library resources easily available to anyone who had a need for them. And, since the college was only about twenty minutes from Ash Creek, Wendy had been doing a _lot_ of research on this whole pagan-philosophy-dire-warning-look-out-for-the-evil-spirit-with-the-bad-attitude schtick that Wiccan bunch had laid on her. The library contained a huge section covering culture, philosophy, and comparative studies in religion, so the vixen had taken full advantage of the opportunity. And she was, if anything, more confused now than when she'd started.

The Wiccan Rede thing made some sense to her. That's pretty much how she approached life herself, except that she didn't attach any religious baggage to it. Live and let live, and keep your nose clean … and she certainly didn't need any divine help with that. She always did what she could to keep herself out of other furs' affairs.

_**[ You may note, here, Gentle Reader, that Wendy has expediently put out of her mind her self-imposed involvement with Harry Capensis. It's called "Convenient Memory Syndrome", a condition she would vehemently deny if one called her attention to it. ]**_

She could also sort of understand the whole Pagan emphasis on natural rhythms as well, though she considered it to be highly allegorical. She didn't really comprehend the fascination they had with what they thought of as the "underlying connections", but if that's how they wanted to do it, more power to them.

Beyond those points, however, the whole system bogged down really fast. She wasn't even remotely interested in pursuing the religious angle, since it didn't, in her mind, have much of anything to do with Faye Porr's visions or sendings or whatever you wanted to call them. The more she read about this Seer business the less she understood, and the less she understood, the greater her frustration. The gist of what she had gleaned was that Seers could never be really sure about anything. Hints, yes; a purpose, perhaps; but real, honest-to-goodness directions were practically nonexistent in the literature, and that did not set well at all with her concrete view of life. This afternoon she had finally given up, decided to chuck the whole thing, and just stopped worrying about it.

Maybe the warning was real. Maybe it wasn't.

Maybe Rhiannon was just jerking her chain. Or maybe that Porr chick was jerking Rhiannon's.

Maybe they did have her best interests at heart; and then again maybe their claim of non-proselytizing was smoke and mirrors. _Well … okay, they haven't called back to bug me about it._ She was to call them, if and when she made up her mind as to whether she would accept their help in warding off this … this whatever it was. If the thing they told her about was even real. The evidence was not very convincing, in her estimation, and Wendy still had a sliver of her mind that was more than half persuaded that their Seer had indulged in a little too much "incense".

All that mental exercise had led up to her wandering down to the gazebo after lunch. Of the two sets of weekend guests, one couple had canceled and the others had left first thing this morning. So, as she had the day to use as she saw fit, she took some time for quiet reflection. This afternoon, she was just kicking back and letting Ash Creek sing to her. And the longer she sat there, the more satisfied she felt doing exactly that. Vermont was in the middle of what passed for a warm spell (the temperature hovered right around the freezing point), the sky was a bowl of deep and uninterrupted blue, and the complete absence of wind helped keep her fairly comfortable. The peace overtook her in there somewhere, and she was content.

_Things will take care of themselves. They usually do. Hey, I found someone to fill in for Ellen, and it didn't even take two days, and she's doing a great job! My orders and stuff for the party are moving along well. And Rhiannon didn't seem too concerned with timetables. Maybe that's because she's not the worrying type, or maybe it's because the thing they were stressing over is in the distant future. They never were clear on that. Heck, they weren't __really__ clear on much of anything._

_Eh. Whatever._

She closed her eyes and tuned out everything but the splash and flow of the water in the nearby stream.

##

_** Tuesday 15 November 2016, 5:30pm **_

Wendy had arranged with her bank to do an automatic draft of five hundred dollars to her one rolling-balance credit account on the fifteenth of each month. That was the day the eight-hundred-dollar stipend was deposited, so she knew there would be no problem covering it. That is, there _should_ have been no problem in covering it. But she happened to be in her office for a minute, and noticed the e-mail from the bank alerting her of an inability to make the transfer, due to insufficient funds. She called up her statement and could find no evidence of a deposit. This puzzled her greatly. She wished she had seen this earlier so that she could call the bank, but they were closed now.

She still had a little in her savings account, and took only a minute to transfer enough into checking to meet the payment. But that left things pretty darned thin, and she was definitely going to have to talk to somebody in the morning. An oversight like this would have to be rectified, and soon. She had come to really depend on that stipend, especially considering the balance she was carrying on the credit account … and considering the recent precipitous drop in the number of customers for the Café. Her muzzle twisted in frustration over that thought. Karl would be coming over in an hour for his Mexican extravaganza, but he was the only dining guest today or yesterday. What had been a full calendar only a couple of weeks ago was getting very sparse indeed, as furs called to cancel their reservations. She suspected that _horrible_ piece The Inside Scoop had run the Saturday before last had a lot to do with it. And if she ever got her paws on that skinny, smirking, self-righteous Fitch-Procyon bitch! _**Oh!**_

She realized she was grinding her teeth and forced herself to stop, shaking her head. No use dwelling on that. Food to prepare. Karl's appetite to consider. Better get cracking.

##

_** deep night **_

Faye Porr lay on the bed, wound into a tense knot. Her sheet and pillow were already damp with sweat. Her long headfur had escaped its snood and lay tangled all about her. From time to time she would go completely limp, as her spirit slipped from her body into the ethereal plane, feeling the ebb and flow of the thought stream that had caught her attention. It bore the same evil reek she'd smelled before, of that she was sure.

She followed it, tracking … tracking …

##

Wendy had already lost the comforter and counterpane, and scattered her pillows across the bed. Fists clenched, her claws were beginning to draw blood from her palms. In the sucking grip of the dreamscape, she struggled. The scene was totally alien, the characters completely unknown, yet she fought a losing battle with her own subconscious, slipping at last into the persona . . . . .

_. . . . . She trod a dappled glen of gold and green and rich brown, the smell of dark earth mingled with the perfume of the spring flowers that twined the gnarled bark of every tree. The thick moss carpeting the trail welcomed each footfall as she wandered through the ancient wood. She lifted an arm to pluck one of the blossoms, and the forest green gossamer fabric of her full gown slid gently back to reveal, and compliment, the golden glow of her skin. Then she remembered why she had come here._

_Her love was waiting. She must not tarry._

_The path was clear, all others fading, and she followed it at an eager pace, coming soon to the glade of the fey. For her love was no mere mortal. He was Tamerlane himself, prince of the Sidhe, and a more tender, more noble being she'd never known. She spied him in his gray cloak, standing on the hummock in the fairy ring, and ran to him, calling his name. But the harder she ran, the longer grew the path, and the steeper grew the little hill. She gasped each breath as she climbed the final span of what had become a towering crag, the fierce, wild wind and sharp rocks tearing her dress to ribbons._

_When had the sky grown so dark?_

"_Tam?" She reached a hesitant paw to his back. "Tam, why are you doing this?"_

_The figure spun to face her. It was not Tamerlane. No, it was most definitely not her Tam, though in one fist it gripped the long, bloodied hair of that unfortunate being's severed head. Tamerlane's dead eyes opened and pierced her with their gaze, the dead lips parting to mouth, "What have you done?" And the pale and scabrous thing that held him cackled in triumph as it swung the head like a mace, bringing it up and around to strike her squarely in the teeth . . . . ._

There was depth and energy in the scream that reverberated through her room and pounded Wendy into consciousness.

She jerked up and looked around wildly for a few seconds. Gingerly she felt of her face: no bruises. She worked her lower jaw back and forth a few times to be sure it was still operational. She ran a paw down her arm, relieved to feel the soft fur covering it, then squinted at her paw, rubbed her fingers together and sniffed them: no blood.

Slumping, she rested her forehead in one paw for a moment, sighing in frustration, then slipped out of bed, pulled a thick robe off the rack, and headed down to the kitchen. She could feel the beginnings of what she was sure would be a monumental headache pricking her temples.

Coffee, that's what she needed. Coffee and a pawful of aspirin.

##

Faye's eyes flew open. The tenuous psychic link had severed suddenly, leaving only the faintest odor behind. She turned over to look at Bri, sleeping soundly beside her, and the sight of his peaceful face served only to get on her nerves.

She rolled over and got out of bed, careful not to wake him, and padded out into the hall, heading for her meditation room.

##


	24. Chapter 3 Rebound Part E

**_Chapter Three – Rebound – Part E_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Wednesday 16 November 2016, 9:30am **_

The weather forecast called for a blustery, overcast day, with falling temperatures, followed in the evening by the arrival of a storm front. Most of the New England states, and especially those areas near the Lakes, were expecting to wake up to at least fifteen – and as much as thirty – centimeters of the white stuff the next morning. The disgustingly cheery femme fur who was doing the announcing made sure to tell everyone to think twice about doing any driving after nightfall. Wendy _sincerely_ hoped that was the reason for the three cancellations she'd received since breakfast.

A more immediate concern, though, was why her automatic deposit hadn't automatically deposited. She tapped in the number for Fenton & Associates, but didn't recognize the voice of the fur who answered.

"Yes, I'd like to speak with Harper Fenton, please."

There was a moment of silence. "Do you mean Gaylord Fenton?"

Wendy's brow knitted. "No. I don't know any Gaylord. I've been working with Mr. _Harper_ Fenton, Esquire, and I'd like to speak to _him_. Please."

"Ah … who is calling, please?"

"Wendy Wylde. He knows me quite well, I assure you."

"Ah … yes … well. Hold please."

Damned, sniveling, incompetent toady! How a reputable law firm could let such a miserable excuse for a …

"Hello?"

She didn't recognize this voice either. "Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Gaylord Fenton. I'm Harry's cousin."

"Oh! So there _is_ a Gaylord. Have you joined the firm?"

"I, ah, I've come in to manage the day-to-day operation of the office. But I'm an accountant, not a lawyer, so in that sense, no. Mr. Yates is running the legal department."

Puzzlement and frustration vied for preeminence in Wendy's pretty head. "Fine! Whatever! Can I speak to Harry? If he's out of the office, just say so! I can call back later when he gets in."

"Um … Miss Wylde … is it Miss, or Missus?"

"And that would be your concern, how?"

"Look, there's no need to get snippy."

"Then why won't you let me talk to Harry?"

He didn't say anything for several seconds. Wendy was about to launch into a tirade when he asked, "When did you last speak with him?"

"What?"

"When did the two of you last speak?"

"Uh … I dunno." She thought about that for a minute. Now that she considered the question, it _had_ been a while. "September maybe? Yeah, early September. I had some trouble with my electrical wiring and tried to get in touch with him later that month, but I talked to his partner, Mr. Yates, instead." She grimaced as she recalled that conversation. It hadn't been pleasant, which was why she had no desire to talk to him now.

"I see. Well, Ms. Wylde, I am very sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I regret to inform you that Harry passed away."

"_WHAT?_ HOW?"

"He was very sick."

"With what?"

"He'd been battling an autoimmune disorder for several years, and over the last few months it took a bad turn." He paused to give Wendy an opportunity to respond. When she didn't, he continued, "Harry spent a week in the hospital in late September, went back in around the middle of October, and, uh, didn't make it back home. He developed something like cirrhosis as a complication, and his liver shut down. He died on November second."

"I … but … I …"

"Yes, miss. It was a blow to his whole family."

"I had no idea! I didn't! But … but why didn't Mr. Yates say anything?"

"I wouldn't know, although I can't say it comes as a shock." A stern note crept into Mr. Fenton's tone. "I'd be very interested to hear the reasons behind that myself."

"Wow. How … how are his kids holding up?"

"Harry's kids? Under the circumstances, not too bad. He never kept any secrets from them. They're with their mother."

"Wow. This is such a … I'm sorry. He was a really nice guy."

"Thank you."

"Really nice … Poor guy." She thought of something. "Does Rose work for you now? I know she and Harry were close friends."

"Evidently, Rose only stayed on as long as she did out of loyalty to Harry. She informed me that she had no intention of being, as she put it, _'one of Mr. Yates's yes-girls'_, and turned in her notice. Friday is her last day here."

"Oh." After a moment's reflection, Wendy decided that came as no surprise. She didn't know what else to say. She was no longer so sure that this would be a good time to bring up her money woes.

"Ms. Wylde?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you want to speak with Harry about?"

"Oh! Um …" _Okay, maybe it is._ So she gave him the particulars about the stipend and its application.

He sounded genuinely puzzled. "I had no knowledge of this arrangement. Did you ever discuss any of this with Rose?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Do you have copies of the papers?"

"Yes I do, in my safe deposit box. I can get them over to you …" She consulted her calendar. "Um … Friday. About noon or so. Will that do?"

"Absolutely. I can go over everything with Mr. Yates, and maybe figure out what's what."

"That'll be a relief! I'm in sort of a bind for cash right now."

"Well, if you can get me the documentation, I can assure you that I'll get this problem resolved by early next week."

"Thank you! Thank you so much! It's nice to speak to someone who has a little empathy for a change."

He laughed. "I know what you mean. Sometimes it's nearly impossible even to get a real fur to talk to."

"Okay, well you can look for me in two days. I'll be there with bells on."

##

_** 5:30pm **_

Martin swung in through their front gate and breezed into the house. He trotted back to the kitchen and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. "Hullo, Mum! How's the world's prettiest dormouse today?"

"Oh, be off wi' ye!" she laughed. "An' ye say ye nivver kissed th' Blarney Stone."

Martin leaned over to sniff at one of the pots on the stove. "What we be havin' for supper? Smells like bangers 'n' mash."

"Aye, that an' cabbage. Sean asked for it."

"Good boy!"

"Oh, Martin, ye got a bit o' post."

"Oh?" He glanced around and spied a few letters on the sideboard. He scooped them up and glanced at the return addresses, a frown slowly creeping over his face. "Tasia Cross? Elisabeth Howl? Judy Lapp? Nivver heard of any of 'em. Who they be?"

His mother gave him an arch look. "Why doon' ye open 'em an' see?"

He dropped two of them on the sideboard and opened the one from Judy Lapp. The letter had been slightly perfumed, and tickled his nose. He quickly scanned it and then his muzzle fur jumped erect in a furious blush. "Mum! It's a … this is a … wossacallit … a fan letter!"

Siobhan chuckled. "An' no more nor what I expected. Ye did look that handsome on th' telly."

"But … but this wa'n't what I had in me mind! This is … it's all wrong!"

"Coom now, boy, doon' ye be tellin' me ye nivver suspected sommat along these lines wouldna happen. Tis oonly natural." She wiped her paws and came over to give him a hug. "I'd write ye one mesilf, only we live under th' same roof. I jist might anyway."

"But, Mum! What am I s'posed t' do aboot it?"

"Ye could write her back an' thank her for takin' th' trouble to write to ye."

"Um … Mum, I think ye'd mought better read it ferst." And, still blushing, he passed her the note.

She squinted and read, and her eyes widened considerably. "Oh! Oh, my!" She looked up and met Martin's worried gaze. "That's hardly … hardly appropriate!" She looked back at the note and hurriedly folded it up. "Does a young lass really carry on so nowadays?"

"Eh. Heh. I – ah – wouldna know. Miss Foxx doesn't." That wasn't exactly a lie. They'd never actually done any of the sorts of things suggested in the letter, although she _had_ brought the subject up, in a roundabout way.

"That's a relief, then." She indicated the other two letters. "Maybe those are, uh, better?"

Martin opened the one from Miss Cross. A photograph fell out and landed on the floor, face-up. They both stared at it for a few seconds, and then Siobhan leaned down and picked it up by one corner, between one finger and thumb. She carefully deposited it in the trash can. Turning back to Martin, she said, "Or not."

He looked at the last letter in trepidation. "Ay'm afraid t' open tha' one."

"Would ye like me to?"

"Aye."

She slowly tore the envelope open, and just as slowly unfolded the letter. She only read part of the first paragraph before her muzzle fur began to fluff out and she quickly folded it back up. She stuffed it into its envelope and passed it to Martin. "I had no idee. None atall."

"Nor I." His face creased into worry. "Mum, am I to be getting' more o' these, do ye think?"

"Oh. Oh!" Her paws flew to her face. "What if this be nought but th' tip o' th' iceberg?"

"I'd hate t' think that, Mum. These things be _that_ embarrassin'!"

"Well, I s'pose we'll jist have t' wait an' see."

"Can we get th' Post Office t' … screen 'em? Or somethin'?"

"Noo … I doon' think they do tha'."

"Maybe it won' be s' bad. Maybe this be jist a – a fluke."

"I hope so, Son."

But it was not to be.

##

_**[ What say I cut to the chase, Gentle Reader, and just give you the skinny on how this plays out, hmm? **_

_**After the interview was broadcast, it created a flurry of response, **__**many**__** from girls (and a few from Martin's own gender) with amorous intentions, who wanted **__**DESPERATELY **__**to meet him. Siobhan has to have their phone number changed, and then unlisted. The Post Office's New Haven branch has to set up a large drawer to handle the influx of letters over the next couple of months. Martin's utter refusal to answer any of them, and his aversion to the public eye, only seems to encourage the flow.**_

_**Popular Mechanics**__** magazine contacts him and wants to know exactly how he built the mortar, and why he used the materials that he did. Additionally, they flesh out his background, including some about how his father was killed; they get lots of information on his school experience, and a little on his involvement with the youth group at his church; and they go into some detail about his apprenticeship. It turns out that he knows a lot more about a lot of things than anyone guessed up front. He gets a write-up in the February issue … a very complimentary write-up.**_

_**By the first of May, Rensselaer Polytechnic, Carnegie Mellon University, Cornell, and N.C. State had all sent him letters offering scholarships of various (but impressive) amounts. After some checking, he discovers that Carnegie Mellon is less than an hour from Samantha's home in Pennsylvania. He has very little trouble making up his mind from that point on. ]**_

##

_** Friday 18 November 2016, 2:10am **_

Karl came instantly awake when the Ash Creek alarm system started beeping. He rolled to his feet and reached the monitor in two long strides, where he spoke into the pickup. "Oligarch. Revenant. Fistulous." The scene that came up was a split-screen view of the south side of the Inn. The left half of the screen glowed in the multicolored hues of an infrared interpretation, while the right showed a standard camera image, hazy dark grays and blacks against the stark white of the snow on the ground. A crescent moon in the clear sky helped a lot with that view.

Two figures moved furtively across the short length of the south lawn, heading for the rear of the house. Karl accessed two other detection devices, and determined that neither intruder was carrying heavy weaponry, but the bag under the larger one's arm made the wolverine's brows draw together ominously. _That could be an explosive device. Or possibly they may be burglars, striking now that the house is empty. Either way, they've obviously been watching, and waiting for her to leave._

He shot down to the garage and clicked on the ATV's fuel cell system. He tapped in several commands on the touch-screen, activating the vehicle's stealth mode. Wendy wasn't due back from Saratoga Springs until mid-morning, and Karl intended to have this bit of unpleasantness wrapped up long before that.

##

At his gesture, Faye knelt with her father beside the small hole they had dug near the foundation at the rear of the big house. He placed a thin circle of rowan wood on the earth at the bottom of the hole, and positioned a small bag of anise seeds in its center, breathing a low incantation. Faye placed two feathers, tied cruciform with black wool, on top of the bag while reciting her own bit. Nicu then produced the talisman he had made, a large, deep-blue crystal held in the center of a circle of dark leather a span across. The leather had been boiled in wax to give it strength and make it waterproof, and was finely tooled with many arcane symbols, arranged to draw negative psychic energy into the stone, where it would be safely trapped. He muttered several more words to bind the talisman to the house, laid a folded bit of oilcloth over all, and then he and Faye dumped the earth back into the hole. After tamping it down and replacing the frozen circle of sod they had carefully removed, Nicu said, "One more at the other corner and the vixen's dreams should stop troubling you."

"Thank you, Father."

As Nicu knelt to retrieve his bag, they heard, "Nobody move!"

Faye and Nicu both startled and then froze. A huge figure melted into view out of the darkness and stopped some three meters from them.

"Don't try anything stupid. This weapon is not lethal, but its effects are notably unpleasant, and I am an expert shot."

Faye, though frightened out of her wits, said, "Who are you?"

"That is not the issue. The issue is what _you_ are doing trespassing on private property."

Karl hadn't really known what to make of the pair. He'd watched as they placed those odd items into the hole, listened to what they said (in a language he _didn't know!_) and puzzled over what they were doing. But whatever it was, they didn't have permission to do it, and he decided to stop them for an explanation.

Nicu spoke up, replying in heavily accented English, "You not this house owner."

"Uh … no. You might say I'm the chief of security."

"I see." Nicu considered the larger fur briefly, and then said, "We to help here be needed."

"Ah … okay. And why is that?"

"This owner of house to have enemy. One attack her dreams." He pointed to the recently-filled hole. "We stop."

Karl, mightily puzzled, glanced back and forth between the two Dalmatians and the excavation. "You'll excuse me for saying so, but that sounds like a lot of baloney to me." He gestured at the ground. "I'll have to ask you to dig that stuff back up and be on your way. Ms. Wylde already has all the protection she needs."

Faye held out a paw and cried, "No! You mustn't! Really, there is a … a thing, a creature of some sort, a … an evil spirit! It sends her dreams, bad dreams! Please! You must leave the talisman in place!"

"Talisman? This some kind of hocus-pocus going on here?"

"No, I assure you, sir, it's very real! She needs a guard and a ward to protect her from these visitations!"

"Ah-huh." _Screwballs. But at least they don't seem dangerous._ He holstered his weapon. "Well, I'll talk it over with her when she gets back. Right now, you need to collect your things and scram."

Nicu's voice was low and controlled. "No." He somehow managed to infuse that one syllable with both melody and warning.

Karl met his eyes. "Mister, that wasn't a multiple-choice question. You can take it and go, or you can just go and I'll … I'll dispose of it … myself. Either way, it's … um …" He blinked and shook his head. Something pulled at a memory. "It's coming out … out of the … um … the ground."

"No. It stays."

"Um … look … uh … mister …" Karl couldn't seem to take his gaze away from those black, black eyes. Fascinating eyes. Bigger than one might expect. Bigger than he'd noticed at first. Almost like doors, ebony portals into a room he'd never seen before, a room, no, a mansion, an entire estate filled with very interesting things, things that intrigued him, that spiked his imagination, that made him want to examine them and take them apart to see how they worked, of course they had to work, such intricate, such beautiful little mechanisms must have been made with a purpose, but it was dancing, just out of reach of his intuition, and now he had his teeth in the problem he couldn't simply walk away, no, there was so much to see, so much to do, so much to explore, to accomplish, and he was needed here …

Nicu gently took Faye's paw and guided her around the corner of the house. "Now we will plant the other talisman." They walked briskly away from the wolverine, who stood rooted to the ground, unfocused eyes staring through a spot maybe a meter and a half off the ground.

When the Dalmatians finished with their task, Nicu went back to where he'd left Karl. He studied the wolverine for a few minutes, turning at length to his daughter. "If we wake him now, he will try to stop us again."

"But he doesn't even have a coat! If we leave him here, he will freeze!" She was none too warm herself, and had been shivering for some time.

The elder cocked his head as he considered their large, silent adversary. "Perhaps. But I think not. There is more to this fur than is easily seen, that I can tell. He hides much in that carcass of his." He shrugged. "But you do not need to worry." He reached down and scooped up a pawful of snow, placing it carefully on top of Karl's head. He followed this act with a brief series of gestures and a short phrase. "Now he will wake when his head is free of snow."

"Will he remember?"

"No. He won't remember anything from this night." With a dry chuckle, he added, "And he will be very, very confused as to how he got out here." He picked up his bag and nodded. "Let's go."

##


	25. Chapter 3 Rebound Part F

_**Chapter Three - Rebound - Part F**_

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Monday 21 November 2016, mid-afternoon **_

Wendy was taking inventory of the morning's delivery of exotic foodstuffs, storing them in the pantry as she checked them off the list, when her PA buzzed. She hopped down off the step-stool and flipped it open, but the number didn't ring any bells. "Hello?"

The video display winked on and she found herself looking at Ellen's smiling (scratch that – positively _glowing!_) countenance. "Ellen!"

"Hey, Wendy! Lookin' good!"

Wendy studied the display hungrily. "Whoa! Girl, I have to say, Mexico agrees with you! You just get here?"

"Yeah, about a half hour ago. We just got all the stuff in the house."

"You get a new PA? I didn't recognize the number."

"My PA's dead, so I'm usin' my Aunt Rachel's." Her eyes fairly snapping, Ellen continued, "Wendy, I brought back a surprise with me!"

"Must really be something! You look like you're about to bust!"

"Ooooh, yeah! Just wait! I'll be down there by …" She glanced at the clock on the PA's display. "… gotta take the snow into account … say five-ish?"

"Bring it on, girlfriend!"

"Oh! Hey, you got anybody in for the early slot? I don't wanna get in the way…"

"Nah. Weather's been really crappy. Nobody in tonight at all."

"Really? That been happening much?"

"A lot more than I like, let me tell you. I'll give you the details when you get here."

"Okay. See ya!"

##

_** 5:22pm **_

How Ellen managed to sneak in without being heard, Wendy didn't know, but the first inkling she had that the mink had arrived was when she got pounced just after closing the refrigerator door.

"Hey, boss-lady! Ya miss me?"

Wendy spun around and returned the embrace with fervor. "And how!" She laid her head on Ellen's shoulder, soaking up the younger femme's scent. "It's really, really, really, really, _really_ good to have you back!"

After a long moment Ellen pulled away a little and said, "Lemme have a look at you." She pushed a long lock of Wendy's headfur out of her eyes, stroking it back over her ear, and studied the vixen's face. A small frown crept onto her own features as she asked, "How have you been sleeping?"

"Well … okay some nights, just so-so others. Why, does it show?"

"You got a sort of tired look around your eyes." Ellen bit a corner of her lip. "Guess that's mostly my fault, leaving when I did."

"Oh, Ellen, please don't feel like …"

"Now, don't be all noble on me and stuff. I left you in the lurch. And that party's in, what, three days?"

Wendy nodded. "But I've got a …"

Ellen laid a finger across Wendy's muzzle. "I'll just have to pull some extra shifts to make it up to you."

"But I don't want you working like a galley slave right after you finish your vacation!"

"Don't start. You're gonna let me do this, and like it."

Wendy grinned. "You're a silver-tongued devil! Here," she said as she held out her arm. "Twist it."

Ellen made to grip the proffered limb, and Wendy let her arm go floppy as soon as she made contact. "Okay, you talked me into it."

Ellen laughed brightly. "I _have_ missed your sense of humor. Such as it is." She leaned down and kissed the vixen between her eyes, and her grin widened. "Hey, you wanna see my surprise?"

Wendy was so glad to have Ellen back within arm's reach, she'd have agreed to anything. "Sure!"

"Okay, c'mon!" Ellen slid her paw down Wendy's arm to clasp paws with her, and pulled her out into the hallway.

"So what is this surprise, anyway?"

"You'll see." Ellen's legs were a bit longer than Wendy's, and she was moving them very quickly. The vixen had to jog to keep up.

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"It ain't Brussels sprouts, girlfriend!"

"Is it one thing or a set of things?"

"You'll see."

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"Patience is a virtue! Just wait and see."

"Where are we going?"

"The library."

"So you got me a book?"

Ellen glanced over and grinned. "What makes you think it's for you? I told you it was _a_ surprise, not _your_ surprise."

"Spoil-sport!"

"It won't make you swell up and die to wait another twenty seconds."

Wendy persisted, more out of fun than for any other reason. "What color is it? Does it have knobs? Can you make it do tricks?"

Ellen grinned and held up three fingers to tick off as she said, "Black and gold; you might say that; and yes, I can. But not the way you mean."

"What kind of an answer is _that_?"

"The only kind you're getting." They got to the library door and Ellen paused dramatically. "Close your eyes."

"Oh for cryin' out loud!"

"Close 'em."

Wendy complied. She heard Ellen open the door, then felt herself being guided into the room.

"Can I open my eyes yet?"

"Hold on." Ellen turned her slightly. "Okay, you can look."

What Wendy was expecting she hadn't really known. Clothes, perhaps? Some elaborate piece of native artwork? A potted palm tree? She was not, however, expecting … an ocelot.

He was standing at the end of the sofa, his white Panama hat in one paw, and a wide grin on his face. He exclaimed, "Senorita!" swept a brief bow, took two long steps forward, grasped her paw, and deposited a light kiss on the back. "I am honored! Ellen has told me so much of you!"

"Wendy, this is Fernando Colón."

Wendy's mouth hung open, though she couldn't manage to push any words out.

Fernando's grin seemed a permanent fixture on his face. "I know this must come as a shock to you, Senorita, and for that I apologize. But Ellen will have her little joke."

Wendy swallowed and regained some measure of control over her reaction. "Shock is putting it mildly." She turned to Ellen. "You feel like telling me what's going on?"

Ellen dimpled. "He followed me home, mommy. Can I keep him?"

"_Keep_ him?"

"Well, yeah. That's the idea, anyway."

Fernando stepped over to Ellen and appropriated her paw. "Yes, Senorita Wendy. We are to be married."

Wendy lost contact with her vocabulary for the second time in less than a minute.

"That's right, boss-lady. He's gonna make an honest woman out of me."

_Ellen … married … Ellen … gone … Ellen …_"But … but it was … only a couple months ago you said … what was it you said," Wendy frowned as she babbled, searching for some kind of anchor, some point of reference. " … something about not even knowing what you wanted out of life? And now you're getting married, just like that? And you just met? And … and …" She stopped, then threw up her paws. "Just, poof, hello, let's get married? What the hell are you thinking?"

Ellen's smile faded. "Well, hell, Wendy, I thought you'd be happy for me."

Fernando said, "It is the shock, the suddenness of it. She needs time to recover."

_Recover? _The word was deep in the weight of bitterness it carried to her ears._ Suddenness,_ thought Wendy, _is part of it, true. But I sure as hell wasn't expecting to have someone steal her right out from under my nose. Dammit! This is so unfair!_

Wendy stood, swaying slightly, glancing back and forth between the two of them, her expression flickering from puzzled to hurt to stormy to sad every few seconds in a random pattern.

Ellen, though disconcerted, mustered her resolve and said, "Tell you what. We'll go now and let it all settle in your mind, okay? I'll call you tomorrow to get the details on the party, okay? Then we can figure out how I can help."

Wendy's answer was clipped, and a bit harsher than she intended. "Don't bother. I think I've pretty much got the party taken care of." She shrugged. "No big deal. You do what you want to do." And she turned and walked rapidly back to the Hall, heading for the kitchen.

Ellen sniffed, blinking back the tears that surprised her. She looked up at Fernando, her eyes empty. He hugged her around the shoulders and said, "That did not go very well, did it?"

"No. I guess it didn't." She sighed and picked up her coat from the armchair by the sofa. "Let's go."

##

_** Tuesday 22 November 2016, 10:50pm **_

Beltrami Island State Forest, in northern Minnesota, is a popular destination for snowmobile enthusiasts during the snow months. There are nearly a hundred kilometers of marked trails, for those who make a habit of following rules, and those charged with patrolling the sixteen thousand hectares of forest would like to be able to _keep_ the snowmobiles on the designated paths. But as there were only four furs assigned to the BISF, that was not a practical outcome. Consequently, the total distance of unauthorized trails measured some five times that of the marked ones, and there was bloody little the rangers could do about it. The upshot of this was that the rangers had adopted a very relaxed attitude where patrols were concerned. After all, nobody stayed out in the forest after dark. What would be the point?

This all meant nothing to the emaciated figure hunkered over a hot fire in the depths of the forest … but it did mean that he wouldn't be interrupted.

He had caught three small feral squirrels earlier that day, carefully breaking their backs to paralyze them. They needed to be alive, but docile. Whether they were in pain or not was immaterial to him.

He completed the first incantation, cast the herbs into the flames, and held the small animals head-down in the thick smoke. The oily, black light appeared on his fur almost immediately, and he cringed as the other-worldly being invested him.

##

Wendy had made an early night of it, slipping into a dreamless sleep before eleven. She'd had a couple of cups of chamomile tea to calm her nerves, and the light sedative had done its work well. She didn't like to dwell on the fact that she hadn't spoken to Ellen since the previous evening, but in truth she was still too worked up over the mink's shoot-from-the-hip decision about marriage to hold a reasonable conversation. She was hoping a good night's sleep would help.

##

As the three tiny creatures gasped in the heat and dense smoke, the dark nimbus flowed over the black wolf's paw and down to the animals, absorbing their life energies. A dying creature's pain aided the Overlord in this pursuit, and the keener the agony, the sweeter the taste. But the basic fear and pain response of a feral paled in comparison to the raw, abject terror of a sentient being. Now that was a feast indeed! The numbing, crawling horror; the confusion; the deep knowledge of the immediacy of death … that experience was a true prize. This sniveling sub-creature who supplied access to this dimension was hardly worth the effort, mental defective that he was, but he had shown the Overlord another who would make a meal to remember. The periodic sendings since that time had brought delicious hors d'oeuvres of fear vibrating back along the psychic ways. The targeted sentient would be a writhing morass of loathing and terror by the time of the final feeding.

The Overlord concentrated as the wolf began the second incantation. The dream he had planned for this night would send the vixen screaming into the dark, and he wanted to be ready to catch every nuance of her reaction.

##

Wendy, of course, knew nothing of the talismans that Nicu Porr had made, and cared even less. If asked, she would have professed no reliance in such things. She gave the supernatural only a passing thought, if she thought of it at all, and truly did not consider the possibility that it might pose a danger, except to the pocketbooks of certain deluded individuals. And although she could not explain the nature or cause of her recent intense nightmares, she had nearly laughed out loud at the origin Rhiannon Greengage had suggested.

Had she been at all sensitive to the flow of spirit in the adjacent planes, she would have come to a different conclusion. But she slept soundly as the tendril of dread slipped rapidly in her direction.

##

The wolf was seeing with the Overlord's eyes. The shadowy vision of the big house came into view. They fell through the cloudy layers, targeting the bedroom where she slept. The wolf did not see the faint shimmer of energy that crossed between the two talismans until they actually made contact with it. And then there was no doubt whatsoever that something was seriously amiss.

Instead of falling into the house, into the bedroom, into the mind of the vixen, they were redirected – sucked, almost – to one corner of the foundation. The wolf, writhing in sudden prickly pain, didn't understand anything about what was happening, only that it felt as if his viscera were being yanked out through his mouth and into the ground.

The Overlord, though, recognized instantly what had been done.

The Overlord had felt this sort of thing before.

The Overlord knew fear.

The psychic connection snapped as the demonic thing worked desperately to escape the energy field, and, by the thinnest of possible margins, succeeded. Had the talisman not been buried, anyone passing by Ash Creek Inn would have noticed the streamers of brilliant blue arcing from the gem in the center of that piece of boiled leather. The Overlord saw it quite clearly, and hated it.

The wolf snapped back to himself in the middle of the dark forest, pitching over onto his back. In confusion he sat up and looked around. And quite suddenly, his entire frame spasmed in pain as the Overlord returned.

**FOOL! YOU WILL PAY FOR THAT!**

The wolf's fur began to steam, and then to smoke, and his screams echoed through the forest, startling a pair of owls. Two kilometers away, a ranger paused on the steps to his cabin, ears flicking and hackles prickling as he tried to discern what sort of animal could make that noise. But it faded away after a few seconds. Shivering a little, the ranger nearly managed to convince himself, as he carried the firewood inside, that it had been nothing but the wind.

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Here Ends Chapter Three.**

**Please take a moment to review.**

**Thank you.**


	26. Chapter 4 Incidents & Accidents Part A

**_Chapter Four – Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations - Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**If we have not quiet in our minds,  
****outward comfort will do no more for us  
****than a golden slipper on a gouty foot.**

_**-John Bunyan**_

**##**

_** Tuesday 22 November 2016, 9:00pm **_

Karl had been "going through the motions" all weekend. He opened the Fixit Shop late on Friday, a fact which failed, curiously, to register on his conscious mind. Fortunately, there was no one who needed his expertise before noon that day. Saturday was nothing out of the ordinary, spent repairing assorted pieces of equipment and dealing with customers. Saturday evening he worked out, and that night he catalogued information from his various worm programs. He went to Mercy Chapel on Sunday morning, and visited with the O'Musca's that afternoon. He spent the hours after supper working in his sub-basement, and retired shortly after midnight. Monday he bought groceries before mid-morning, and then went to the Shop. It was closed to customers, but Martin was there and they examined the intricacies of the timing circuit the young mouse had built by way of a "final exam" in his apprenticeship. Karl congratulated him heartily on a job well done. He treated the O'Musca family to dinner at a nice restaurant in Middlebury that night, and spent the last couple of hours before bed concentrating on the _rapier-main-gauche_ forms he had studied with Richard Grau.

At no point in these activities had he taken any time for meditation, or even a cursory contemplation of his state of mind. His subconscious carefully steered him away if he got close to thinking about such things. But such a state of affairs couldn't be maintained for long … not with _his_ central nervous system.

It happened Tuesday night while he was assembling an ignition circuit in the sub-basement. He had long made a habit of working on puzzles or word problems in his mind while doing other things with his paws, to keep his multi-tasking ability honed. In this instance, he was mentally backtracking over the previous ten days, recalling what he'd been doing at exactly noon each day, then what he'd been doing at exactly one hour after noon, then two hours, and so on, summarizing his activities quickly and moving to the next time slot. (He could typically recall the gist of the events surrounding him, even while asleep, because of the way his mind and senses functioned since his Augmentation.) He'd gotten to the three-AM group and was summarizing Sunday morning when he stopped. Something bothered him. It was almost as if he'd skipped a packet on his hard drive, so to speak. He started over at midnight and zipped through the times: … … Monday at three … Tuesday at three … Wednesday at three … Thursday at three … Saturday at three … Sunday at three … Monday at …

What?

He shook his head a few times. Why didn't that sound right?

_{ { don't worry about it } }_

The tiny voice in the back of his mind tried to distract him again. But his curiosity had been awakened. He couldn't let it go this time.

… … Tuesday at three … Wednesday at three … Thursday at three … Saturday at three … Sunday at …

_There it is again! _

_{ { it's nothing important } }_

It felt as if he'd tripped, mentally. He still hadn't quite fully realized that something 'extra' was going on in his head, so he ignored the urging voice.

Something was definitely out of whack, though.

… … Wednesday at three … Thursday at three … Saturday at three … Sunday at …

There _was_ something wrong! Something was missing! He started to sweat.

_{ { everything is perfectly normal } }_

_No! Shut up!_

This was most definitely uncharted territory, but he felt that he was closing in on the anomaly. Squinting in concentration at the effort, he thought it through for a few seconds, and then did a cross-comparison.

… … Wednesday at two … Thursday at two … Friday at two … Saturday at two … Sunday at …

… … Wednesday at three … Thursday at three … Saturday at three … Sunday at …

_AH-HA!_

_Right there. _

_{ { it is of no consequence } }_

Tools clattering to the workbench, he came very close to total panic when the answer hit him. Friday at three in the morning had ceased to exist. In fact, as he went over his internal record, there was a huge gap in his memory, from just after two until nearly nine. Someone, or something, had tampered with him. His immediate reaction was rage at whoever had done it, but that morphed almost instantly into a clammy fear.

Who could it be?

_How_ could it be?

_{ { there is a perfectly innocent explanation } }_

_Yeah, right!_

He growled as he bounded up the stairs, heading for his living quarters and the computer that kept track of all activity in the Shop. He stopped very briefly on the main floor to activate every last security system in the unassuming building's arsenal, then launched himself upstairs, practically slamming open the files containing his security camera records. The two groups he thought most able to pull off something like this, he could dismiss out of paw. If the Cartel had been in charge, he would never have awakened on Friday morning in the first place. His pelt would currently be decorating someone's floor or draped over an expensive divan, in a very secure location a long way from here. As it wasn't, they hadn't been involved. Conversely, if the ISB had located him without his knowledge (an event he considered highly unlikely) he figured his current situation would be in a windowless holding cell, restrained in such a fashion as to allow their researchers to harvest regular samples of his internal organs.

It _had_ to be a new player, and that worried him immensely.

He wheeled down the menu to two o'clock Friday morning, staring at the screen with growing incredulity. It gave him a very unpleasant chill to watch himself as he woke up and activated the monitor that kept watch over Ask Creek Inn, especially as he did not recall anything about it. The figure on the screen checked a few of the cameras, then hurried out the door. Karl sped through the 'dead space' on the tape, that time while he was gone doing whatever it was he'd been doing, then watched as he returned, zombie-like, and crawled back into bed well after sunrise. The expression – or lack of one – that he'd been wearing made his hackles stand up even stiffer than they had been.

Shadows.

Echoes.

Outlines.

His memory was trying to reassert itself.

He stopped the video and moved over to the unit he'd dedicated to Wendy's security system. With no little trepidation, he ran a diagnostic, pinpointing the alarm, and called up the sequence that had triggered it. As he watched the two figures trudge through the snow, a mist seemed to pass across his vision, blurring his mind, suggesting strongly that he think of something else. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head.

No!

Fighting for control, he forced himself to look at the screen.

_{ { it is not important } }_

Shut up!

_{ { why worry about it? } }_

Go away!

The snowy scene swam back into focus. Something, some barrier, some internal dam seemed to give way, the remaining restraints shattered, and certain memories of his actions that night smashed into him like a kiloton-force shockwave. He shuddered down into his chair, head spinning for a few minutes as the pieces coalesced into reasonable order, and he could make sense of what had been done to him. But even then, it was not complete.

He would find out why.

Concentrating again on the monitor, he watched the Dalmatian duo as they dug a hole beside the foundation and dropped some very strange objects into it.

_Burglars. Yes, that's it. I took them for burglars. _

He saw himself as he confronted them, remembered the conversation he had with them … that is, he remembered the conversation he _started_ to have with them. His memory tapered off to nothing shortly after he began speaking. His puzzlement only mounted as he watched himself stiffen like a marionette, and the other two calmly walk out of the scene.

What the devil is going on? Was I drugged? How is that possible?

Less than fifteen minutes elapsed before they returned. The male examined him for a moment … then scooped up some snow and placed it on his head! He made a couple of odd gestures, and they left. It was almost as if …

No! No way! Not that!

Karl quickly reset the feed to the point just before he'd gone stiff, and froze the picture. The male was gazing at him intently. The camera caught a good shot of his face, more than a three-quarter view.

He spoke clearly into the audio pickup, "Annabelle. Thersitical. Tautoousian. Tachydidaxy. Annabelle."

- - **working** - - The feminine voice was pleasant, but crisp and businesslike.

- - **Annabelle active** - -

"Log operator and cross-check vocal signature."

- - **working** - -

- - **vocal signature identified as Gamma\\1949** - -

- - **input confirmation code** - -

Karl rattled off a lengthy string of letters and numbers.

- - **code confirmed** - -

- - **you may proceed** - -

"Enhance image, screen sector five."

- - **define enhancement parameters** - -

"Clarity, then size."

- - **active** - -

- - **complete** - -

A close-up of the Dalmation's face filled the screen. Karl Augmented his vision and studied the image. He got a ticklish feeling along the top of his head, making his ears quiver. The fur was staring at him very intently, the moonlight glinting off those obsidian eyes of his … those deep, those fascinating eyes …

_{ { forget … } }_

He blinked. A vague image of an unimaginably vast and intricate workshop flitted through his mind.

_{ { forget … forget … forget … forget … forget … } }_

Karl squeezed his own eyes tightly shut. _No! Get out of my head!_

The voice faded. He hazarded another glance at the screen. The hypnotic compulsion returned almost at once, and he quickly looked away. Under his breath, he recited the atomic masses of the trans-uranic isotopes until his head was completely clear.

"Annabelle, restore previous image."

- - **image restored** - -

Karl drew a deep breath and studied the Dalmatian, comparing him with every government operative and shady informant he'd ever met.

Nothing.

He ran through the rest of the sequence, then started over, stopping once more at the point where the Dalmatian had mesmerized him, or whatever is was he'd done. He knew it couldn't be simple hypnosis. He was immune to that. Delta had seen to it personally that no member of Omicron Platoon would ever be susceptible to imposed suggestion.

"Annabelle, perform level three construct."

- - **active** - -

- - **define subject type** - -

"Figure."

- - **active** - -

- - **define target** - -

"Manual coordinate entry." He tapped several numbers into the machine.

- - **acquired** - -

The form of the fur on the screen was surrounded by a thin, blue outline.

"Execute."

It took the system less than twenty seconds to produce the desired three-dimensional model from the video feed records.

- - **complete** - -

"Set construct to primary."

The screen cleared and was replaced by the virtual model of the Dalmatian.

"Cross-reference."

- - **define reference type** - -

"Criminal."

- - **active** - -

- - **define additional constraints** - -

"Geographic region."

- - **active** - -

- - **define area** - -

"New England. No additional constraints."

- - **active** - -

- - **no matches were found** - -

- - **do you wish to expand your search criteria?** - -

"Yes."

- - **redefine area** - -

"North America."

- - **active** - -

The voice was quiet for a quarter-minute.

- - **complete** - -

- -** no matches found** - -

- - **do you wish to expand your search criteria?** - -

"Redefine." Karl had heard them speaking a language he didn't know. That might narrow the field considerably.

- - **define reference type** - -

"Immigration and year."

- - **active** - -

- -** define date range** - -

Karl figured the Dalmatian to be at least middle-aged. His companion was considerably younger, probably a daughter or niece, and while her accent was very noticeable, her command of English was good. Much better than the male's. They had probably been in the States less than ten years.

"2006 to present."

- - **active** - -

- - **define additional constraints** - -

The dialect had been wholly unfamiliar. It was not a romance tongue, nor was it one of the tonal languages.

"Exclude immigration from China, Japan, the British Commonwealth, and South America. No additional constraints."

- - **complete** - -

- - **one match found** - -

In spite of himself, Karl's heart pounded. "Display."

An INS holographic identification came up on the screen. It was him. Even in the low-res holo, there was no mistaking those eyes. Karl read the heading. Nicu Stefan Andrzej Porr. Admitted 9/9/07 from Macedonia.

_Macedonia, huh? Never been there._

He perused the entire record, then did a general search for 'Nicu Porr'. There was precious little else. The fur had never bought a house. He didn't even have a driver's license. But there was one reference he didn't recognize, and Karl followed the link. Mr. Porr was a member of an organization called _Pralipe Rom_. Karl had never heard of it, and did a quick search. When he identified it, that cold feeling gripped the base of his spine again.

Rom.

Romany.

Gypsies.

The memory danced unbidden across his mind . . . . . . .

_. . . . . . . Yvonne dropped into the rec-room, scored a beer from the big upright cooler, and plunked herself down onto the short couch next to Beorn. "Hey."_

"_Hey." His response was low, and quiet._

_Yvonne twisted off the cap and took a long swallow before glancing up at the big wolverine. After studying him for several seconds, she offered, "Missed you in the briefing last night."_

"_I was busy."_

"_You were hacking."_

_He shrugged. "And it keeps me busy."_

_She took note of his closed and defensive body language, and sighed. "You're bummed over something."_

_Another shrug. _

_She reached over and scratched the back of his neck, surprised by the tightness she felt. __Damn, he's tense!__ "What's got your shorts in such a wad?"_

"_What makes you think …"_

"_Because you could hire that face out to a cottage cheese company."_

_He glanced over at her, one eyebrow raised. "Say what?"_

"_Your frown. It could curdle milk."_

"_Hmph."_

"_So what's up?"_

"_Last week is what's up. Specifically, Thursday. Specifically nine-twenty p.m., GMT."_

"_Oh." She paused long enough for another swig. "Because we lost the target?"_

"_Hardly. Losing the target happens. Extractions can be like that, and I don't get bent out of shape over it. No, it was the __**way**__ we lost him."_

"_Yeah, okay. Point for you." _

"_I still don't know what to think about it. I never heard of anyone … well, __dissolving__ before."_

_Yvonne didn't answer immediately. She took a couple of long drinks, finishing the bottle._

_Beorn asked, "They find the active agent yet?"_

"_You mean whatever solvent did him in?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_There wasn't one."_

_He turned and stared at her. "Excuse me?"_

_She nodded. "No foreign substances. He was clean."_

"_Yvie, his entire midsection caved in. It was gone."_

"_I know."_

"_It didn't melt by itself!"_

_She reached over again and ruffled his headfur. "Actually, Be-Be, it didn't melt at all."_

" … … _Come again?"_

_She grinned. "Only with Caleb."_

"_Don't change the subject."_

"_Sorry."_

"_No, you're not."_

"_You're right. I'm not." She pulled her long legs up onto the cushion and swiveled to face him. "He didn't melt or dissolve or anything. There was no residue. The liver, pancreas, spleen, and kidneys were gone."_

" … _Gone? As in removed?"_

"_Gone. As in removed."_

"_You expect me to believe somebody surgically removed his innards while he was under guard, ten thousand meters in the air?"_

"_No. There was nothing surgical about it." She drew a long breath and said, "He had no external wounds. There was no bleeding. His organs were torn out from the inside."_

"_Torn__ out?"_

"_Well … eaten might be closer to the truth."_

"_What the hell are you babbling about? That makes absolutely no sense!"_

"_You know, you really should come to more of the meetings, Be-Be."_

"_But … meetings? Prosyonni in on this?"_

_She nodded._

"_Okay. Spill. How'd they do it and who did it?"_

"_The 'who' we can only guess at. The 'how' is more straightforward." She locked gazes with him. "Gardonay was killed with magic."_

" … _Magic."_

"_Uh-huh." She rose and went to the cooler. "You wanna beer?"_

_He ignored her question. "Magic? Like abra-cadabra and voodoo and witches' brew magic?"_

"_I suppose. If you want to call it that." She opened her drink and took a long swallow. "To be completely technical about it, he was under a geas."_

"_Geas? I thought that was like knight-errant stuff. Oaths and whatnot."_

"_That's the voluntary kind. His was placed on him, possibly – no, make that __probably__ – without his knowledge." She upended her beer, watching him around the side of the bottle as she drank. "More reliable than a cyanide tablet if he gets captured. He sure isn't gonna tell us anything now, is he?"_

"_Reliable."_

"_Very."_

"_I see." He cocked one eyebrow and gave her half a smile. He could tell when someone was pulling his leg. "And how did we identify this 'geas'?"_

"_Prosyonni called in a favor from another unit."_

"… _How's that again?"_

"_Yep. There's a branch of Special Forces that studies magic."_

_He sat back and just looked at her for several seconds. "Are you telling me that we have __magicians__ on the government payroll?"_

"_I don't know as you'd call this guy a magician. He studies the theory, and identifies different types of magic by their residues. Kinda like the forensics team does with gunpowder and stuff at a crime scene."_

"_Residues? __Magical__ residues?"_

"_Uh-huh."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yes. Really."_

"_Bullshit."_

_She offered him a noncommittal shrug of her own. "Believe it if you like. Don't if you like. It won't change the facts."_

"_But that's ludicrous!"_

"_And that's hilarious, coming from you! Think about it, Be-Be. Think about us, about our team. We can't be drugged. We're stronger and faster and more durable than anyone else on the planet. We regenerate damage so fast that it might as well __be__ magic. Hell, Pheebs can read minds, Caleb can heal other furs' wounds, and Rommel can even pull that 'electric eel' thing. Our own __team__ is ludicrous, if you ask the fur on the street. We'd play out as pure science fiction."_

"_We're pure __science__, and you know it!" he protested. "There's no hocus-pocus anywhere in the mix."_

"_Oh, please! For all we know, the things we call 'magic' have natural, logical, repeatable explanations that we just haven't identified yet."_

"_I still think it's a load of crap."_

"_If you say so. Argue the point with Prosyonni's specialist."_

"_But how does he __know__ that? And how do __you__ know anything about it, for that matter?"_

_She gave a soft laugh. "For someone as experienced as you are, there are some __gaping__ holes in your background."_

_He stared at her, frowning._

_She asked him, "Did you ever play RPG's as a kid?"_

"… _RPG's?"_

"_Role-Playing Games."_

"_Oh. Like 'Dungeons and Dragons'? That sort of thing?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_No. Seemed like a waste of time."_

"_You missed out then." She drained the beer and tossed the empty into the bin with the others. "How about reading?"_

"_What __about__ reading?"_

"_Did you read much?"_

"_Of course. I was reading by age four. I read constantly."_

"_And did you read for pleasure?"_

_He glanced away. "Never really had the time. You know of my father and his ambitions for me. School and lessons and practice and training and so on."_

"_Oh, yes." She snickered. "His ambitions. Guess you showed him."_

"_Well, I __**didn't**__ have the fuckin' time," he grunted, the frustration obvious in his voice. "What's your point?"_

"_My point is that you don't seem to know much, if anything, about magic."_

" … _What's the point – what's the __use__ – in studying something that doesn't __exist__? And don't give me any crap about Special Forces studying it. Bureaucracies fund all sorts of ridiculous shit, so that's no recommendation."_

"_Magic exists." She held up a paw to forestall his objection. "Just because you can't put something in a test tube doesn't mean it isn't there. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence."_

"_I say again: bullshit."_

"_Suit yourself. But I know of an awful lot of furs who practice it and rely on it for it not to exist."_

"_Charlatans and fakers."_

"_No. I've seen it work myself."_

_He narrowed his eyes at her._

_She lifted a shoulder in dismissal. "Y'know, I don't really care whether you believe it or not. Animists in Asia, Africa, and South America use magic all the time. They invoke the local powers for protection or offense. Hell, witches in this country use it. You can find practitioners in every state. The Native American peoples use it. The Rom use it."_

"_The who?"_

"_The Romany people. Gypsies."_

"_Hah! Crystal balls and palm readers. If they could predict the future, you can bet they'd do better than the life of the wandering homeless."_

"_Maybe. Or maybe they just have a different value system."_

"_Or maybe they're a bunch of fakes."_

"_No, Beorn. They are not." She levered herself off the couch and walked to the door. "You need to get out of the habit of ignoring or dismissing evidence that doesn't fit your preconceived notions. That kind of self-imposed blindness will get you killed." And she left. . . . . . ._

He had taken her up on that challenge, becoming well-informed in the history of magic and its uses. But the idea of actually using it made him _very_ edgy, and he never did get truly easy with the subject.

Karl understood now that Nicu Porr had used magic to suspend his conscious mind in a sort of limbo. From the effects he'd suffered, he suspected the Dalmatian had cast a spell of dominion, a type of sympathetic magic, although in most cases the caster would need, at the very least, an article belonging to the subject of the spell. A bit of fur was better, and blood was best, but sometimes a fur of unusually great mastery could take control of another's mind by sheer force of will. The very idea of being around magic made Karl's skin crawl. And he was doubly uncomfortable with the knowledge that someone had used it on him. Someone who was obviously well-versed in the ways of spellcraft.

He determined Nicu Porr's current residence, noting that the house was in another fur's name. He was not too far away, over in central New York.

First things first, though. He glanced at the clock: nearly ten. Too late to call Wendy just to chat; certainly too late to keep her from getting curious about his motives, and he didn't feel like deflecting a bunch of her questions just now. But it wasn't too late to call Alan, and so that's what he did. The pastor picked up on the third ring. "Hey, Karl. What's up?"

"I've got a problem I really need to discuss with you."

"You want to come over here?"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to meet here at the Shop. Got something I want to show you, and it isn't easily portable."

"Right now?"

"Very right now."

"I'll be there in fifteen. Let me just tell Sandee."

"That's fine. See you then."

##


	27. Chapter 4 Incidents & Accidents Part B

**_Chapter Four – Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**After two years in Washington,  
****I often long for the realism and sincerity  
****of Hollywood.**

_**-Fred Thompson**_

##

_** Thursday 24 November 2016, 6:20pm **_

Wendy had to admit to herself that things were going very well. The Senator's household staff was more than adequate to the task of supporting the banquet, and had offered valuable help during setup. Once the party started, she and Patty had little to do apart from smiling at the guests and serving whoever came by for food. And as far as being "ornamental" was concerned, they had it knocked.

Two of the guests in particular were impressed enough with the quality and presentation of the food to make further inquiries. One of them, a thirty-something marten femme, had been pressing Wendy for a recipe for the last half hour.

"I promise I won't be any competition, Ms. Wylde. Really! But if I can serve this crusted sole to my in-laws at Christmas, it will go a long way toward mollifying them."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Fowler, but if …"

"And it will show them that I'm not a hopeless total train wreck as a hostess."

" … if I gave out all my secrets …"

"And I've really been trying hard since Rupert and I got married, but his mother just doesn't think anyone's good enough for her 'sweet little baby boy', and she criticizes everything I do, but if she tasted this she wouldn't be able to!"

Wendy made sure the excitable femme was finished talking, then said, "If I gave out my recipes it would put me out of business sooner or later."

"Please? Pretty please?"

"No. Sorry. Trade secrets and all that."

"Well … can you, um … you know, cater it and, well, sort of … you know."

"I know what?"

"You know! Sort of …" Her voice got significantly softer. "you know … pretend it was me who did the cooking."

Wendy didn't care for that arrangement _at __**all**_, and said as much.

"But Ms. Wylde! Please! It would mean an awful lot to me! I can pay whatever you want! Rupert's got _tons_ of money!"

"Mrs. Fowler, I'm not in the extortion business. I'm in the catering business – among other things – and I will be most glad to cater your dinner or lunch or whatever. I'll even stay out of sight if I must. But I'm not going to pretend you cooked the meal when you didn't."

Mrs. Fowler bit her lip. "Well … well … I, uh, I guess I could work with that. You staying out of sight, I mean."

Wendy held up a cautioning finger. "But the sole has to be prepared _right_ before the meal. It can't successfully be done ahead of time. So I would have to be in your kitchen."

"Oh, that's fine! That's fine. The kitchen is two rooms away from the dining room. And heaven forbid that Rupert's mother should get up and fetch anything herself. She wouldn't do that in my house on a bet."

"I still think you'll be getting yourself into trouble with this trick."

"Oh, really? I don't see how."

Wendy almost shook her head in disgust._ Dumb as a sack of hammers._ "Tell me, how often do your in-laws visit?"

"Uh … only at Christmas and again in September. That's Rupert's birthday and they always take us out to eat somewhere."

"And if they want to have this dish again next year at Christmas? What will you do?"

Mrs. Fowler's muzzle worked open and shut a couple of times. "Erm … heh … I, um … that is … well, you could make it again, couldn't you?"

"What if, for some reason, I don't happen to be available?"

"Ohhhh!" She _huffed_ in frustration and stomped one foot lightly. "That's a year off! I can't worry about that right now! Will you do it or not?"

"That depends. When will they be here?"

"Um … in, uh, two weeks. I think. They always arrive in the middle of December and stay until Christmas Eve."

"You _think?_ I need a firm date."

"Well … two weeks, then."

"Two weeks from tonight? That'd be the eighth, right?"

"I guess so."

"So you want to have the dinner on a Thursday?"

"No! Friday! They always get here on Friday!"

"Aaaand … you want to have the big-deal meal the same day they get here? Won't they be tired from …"

"Right! Right! You're right, okay? Make it that Saturday."

Wendy drew her PA from a pocket, flipped it open, and thumbed in to her calendar. "Okay. That's fine. I'll put you down for Saturday the tenth." She tapped a few of the unit's keys. "Is it a mid-day meal or an evening meal?"

"Evening. Around seven."

"Good. That works better for me." _Especially since I don't have any weekend guests for the foreseeable future. _"Is there anything else you'd like to have with the sole?"

"Whatever goes good with it."

"Well."

The marten looked up at Wendy in perplexity. "Huh?"

Wendy caught herself before she explained; the grammar correction had been pure reflex on her part, but she saw no need to get Mrs. Fowler any more flustered than she already was. "Well … then, I guess that will do it. I'll send you an estimate over the weekend."

"Oh! Okay! Sure!" And she bounced off to find her husband.

##

**Suppose you were an idiot.  
****And suppose you were a member of Congress.  
****But I repeat myself.**

_**- Mark Twain**_

##

_** 7:10pm **_

The other femme who had expressed an interest in securing Wendy's services was a diminutive mouse named Ginger Piercer. She approached the subject directly and without preamble. "Ms. Wylde?"

"Call me Wendy."

"Ms. Wendy? I thought your name was Ms. Wylde."

"My name is Wendy Wylde, but I prefer just 'Wendy'. 'Ms. Wylde' is too formal."

"Oh." She seemed nonplussed by that statement, and ignored it. "I want to know if you have yet filled your calendar for next month."

"Not yet, no. But it's getting there. Do you have a date in mind?"

"The seventeenth. We host an annual affair for a few dozen associates."

Wendy pulled out her PA and called up 'December'. Truth to tell, she knew very well that she had only one other booking between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but it didn't hurt to let a client think that demand for her talents was a lot higher than that. She studied the display briefly and said, "You're in luck. The seventeenth is clear." She closed the unit and asked, "Do you have a menu in mind yet?"

"Yes. There are several traditional dishes the guests expect. Our last caterer would add a few more of her own to compliment them."

"I see." Wendy stopped to serve a squirrel couple, and then continued, "Are there any unusual dishes? Ones whose ingredients it might be hard to find on short notice?"

"Yes. That is why I wanted to speak to you now, so you would have three weeks to prepare."

_Three weeks! It takes __three weeks__ to get ready for this thing? _ She contemplated Mrs. Piercer's unsmiling countenance. "Well. I appreciate your being forthright enough to give me that much warning. So how many are we talking about? Guests, that is."

"You should plan for forty adults. No children."

"That sounds fine. Okay, if we could …"

A loud crashing noise outside interrupted her. Audra Springer had retained the services of an off-duty sheriff's deputy as security for the party, and he ran toward the front door. Another crash echoed through the room before he reached it. He cleared everyone away from the front of the house, drew his service pistol, and peered out the narrow glass panel beside the door.

Patty hurried over and grabbed Wendy's arm. "Wendy! What's goin' on?"

Her first reaction after the girl touched her was to pull them both down behind the buffet table, out of sight. Wendy's mind raced.

_Purists? No, not likely. I haven't seen a single hybrid at the party. Not even a mixed couple.  
__Gang war? Maybe. If so we should definitely stay down.  
__Robbery? If they wanted to rob us, wouldn't they have broken in first?  
__Vandals? Surely not with so many furs here. Cops, too.  
__Car wreck? Explosion? Some other kind of accident?_

Only a scant few seconds sped by as she went through the possibilities. Her honest reply, though, was, "Kid, I don't have a clue. But I think we ought to stay put till we find out."

Another prolonged crash made them both wince. Patty's lip had a pronounced quiver in it as she said, "Works for me."

A rough male voice, electronically amplified, began calling obscenities from outside. They heard someone else, probably the deputy, shout back, but couldn't understand what he said. The fur with the bullhorn was undeterred, and continued hurling the vilest insults at the occupants of the house.

"Wendy, I'm scared!"

The vixen pulled the young femme close, covering her head with a protective paw. "Don't worry, Patty. I don't think they're gonna do anything stupid, like shoot at us. They would've started by now if that's what they had in mind."

Two windows broke as several objects smacked the front of the house, followed immediately by another loud crash. Patty screamed and started crying. Wendy thought, _I have __got__ to stop saying things like that!_

More shouting. More crashes from outside. The faint wail of sirens in the distance. The fur with the bullhorn started up again, louder, and then was cut off in mid-curse. The sirens swelled as the police vehicles got closer, Dopplering to a crescendo out front, and then dying. As soon as their echoes faded, Wendy could hear, over Patty's sniffling, several furs chanting rhythmically out on the lawn.

What the hell?

"Wendy?"

"Yeah?"

"That sounds like a … a protest of some sort."

"Protest. Yeah. I think you're right."

Other voices, loud ones, were heard in counterpoint to the chanting. The noise level rose markedly, then began to abate. About a minute later a police officer, not the deputy that had been at the party, came into the room and said, "Ladies and gentlefurs, we have the situation outside contained. But we need for you to stay in the house until those responsible for the disturbance have been removed."

Mr. Springer stepped out from the parlor where he'd been shielding his wife, and asked, "Officer, who _are_ those people?"

"Protestors, sir. Some group called 'No More Lies'."

Someone else asked, "What did they do? What were those awful crashes?"

"Well, ma'am, they busted out a lot of car windows up and down the street …" That statement was met with several cries of outrage. "… and they had a big truck, and they dumped what looks like six or seven hundred kilos of broken glass on the street and the yard."

Wendy thought, _Broken glass? What's that all about?_

The officer continued, "Like I said, folks, as soon as we get the area cleared, we'll let you go take a look at the damage. You probably want to go ahead and call your insurance companies, though." Several of the guests pulled out their PA's to do just that.

Wendy got up and brushed off her outfit. She straightened her skirt and looked at Patty with a relieved chuckle. "I'm glad we parked out back."

##

Audra Springer and two of her friends, a black poodle and a white one, stood at the end of the buffet table, nursing their drinks as they discussed the evening's events. Wendy couldn't help but overhear.

"The part I really can't stand is that _they_ got in a photo-op while nobody in the media even bothered to ask _me_ for a statement! I had to run down that stupid reporter myself!"

"I know what ya mean, Audra." The black poodle patted her arm. "If they have any way of showing us Greens in a bad light, they take it."

"Yeah," agreed the other poodle. "If Audra here walked on water to save a drowning fur, the headline would be something about her not being able to swim."

"I mean it's so damned stupid! Babs, you know I'm not against AIDS research _just because_ it's _AIDS_ research. I just think the government ought to pull funding from _all_ that medical crap and concentrate its efforts in more important areas. That's all."

"Right! Keep the earth clean, and nobody'll get sick in the first place."

Audra agreed enthusiastically. "Exactly! Then it benefits everybody, not just a bunch of druggies and perverts." She pointed at the black poodle. "Sharla, your Alphonso is a doctor. He'd understand how it's better to help the population as a whole, wouldn't he?"

"Oh, I'm sure he would. He doesn't much like to talk politics with me, though. Really, he's not interested in talking about much besides plastic surgery or his sailboat."

"Oh, well, I'm _sure_ he'd see our point. But does this 'No More Lies' bunch talk to me? No. Do they bother to ask my position? No. Do they even want my explanations? Doesn't seem like it. They just show up and call us names and start breaking windows. It's so unfair."

Babs said, "Know what I bet? I bet they really _didn't_ care. I bet they just wanted some media exposure! Hell, Audra, you could've been picked at random!"

"No! You really think so?"

"I betcha."

"You know, I think that might be even worse."

"I betcha-betcha. Ask their lawyer when you talk to him."

Wendy considered adding her two cents to the conversation, especially after that ridiculous comment about 'druggies and perverts'. But she decided against it. For one thing, in her experience, Greens were more totally convinced of the rightness of their position than most religious bigots she'd run into. And for another, she didn't want to antagonize the one paying the rather steep tab for the festivities. Her quoted price had been low on purpose, but some of the items ended up costing her more than she'd counted on. She'd barely break even on this job. So she kept silent and tuned them out.

"Ms. Wylde?"

Wendy turned and faced Mrs. Piercer, smiling. "It's Wendy."

"Ah. That quaint attitude toward familiarity. It is not really necessary. But that is not important. I would like to continue our conversation from where … to be sure, from where things got out of paw."

"Oh, right! Not nearly as many furs left now, so we should have the time." She thought a second and said, "You were going to tell me about the menu."

"Yes." She held out a couple of pages of paper. "I wrote down the most unusual dishes. The candied pork and mango will take the most time."

Wendy read the brief descriptions, eyes widening. At length she said, "These are some very complex recipes. I'm only familiar with one of them."

"Yes, they can be rather involved. Can you do it?"

Wendy began slowly to nod as she looked over the list once more. "I believe so. If I start tomorrow. Does this compote really take that long to reduce? You don't cook it at all?"

"We have had cooks attempt to speed the process before. The results were unsatisfactory." Mrs. Piercer had yet to smile, or speak in anything but a monotone.

"I see." Wendy folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket. This femme's blunt and distant manner was beginning to put her off, and a disquieting thought occurred to her. "If I may ask, why are you not using the same caterer you used last year? Did you have a disagreement or something?"

"No. She was unavailable."

"Oh. Got a better offer for that time?"

"No. Price is not now and never was an issue. We pay what the caterer charges, assuming everything is satisfactory."

"Well!" _That_ was very interesting news! "I'd certainly do my best to keep a spot open under those circumstances."

"I feel sure she would have as well, had she not been killed."

Wendy started visibly. "Killed?"

"Yes. A tiresome development. It was those purists that were constantly being mentioned in the news. We were told that they killed her to gain access to a party."

"Was that the … was it when the Attorney General was killed?"

"Yes. The timing was most inconvenient."

"Inconvenient." Wendy could not believe her ears. She'd heard furs get more passionate over mildewed patio furniture. "Incon_venient__?_"

"Quite. When my secretary told me last week that our usual caterer would be unavailable, I was completely at a loss. But Audra said to wait and speak to you. I believe she was correct in her assessment."

Wendy hadn't encountered such an overwhelming level of … well, disconnectedness … in her memory. A murder – no, several murders – had been _inconvenient?_

"I will send the complete list of required dishes to your PA tomorrow. You will assemble a list of complimentary dishes and submit them for my approval by Monday. I also require an estimate of the cost of the meal at that time."

"Inconvenient?"

"Pardon me? Did you say that was inconvenient for you?"

Wendy shook her head and focused on the mouse. "No. I'll have no trouble with that."

"Then let me get your PA address." She held out her own unit. Wendy opened hers, tapped two keys, and held it next to Mrs. Piercer's until they both beeped a few seconds later. As soon as the address was logged, the mouse closed her PA and walked away.

_No 'thank you'? No 'good evening'? No nothing! That femme is twisted!_ She walked to the other end of the table where Patty stood. The cat had been fending off the unwelcome attentions of one of the waiters for the last half-hour, and Wendy shooed him away. "Patty, do you know a family by the name of Piercer?"

Patty noted Wendy's concerned expression, glanced over her shoulder at mouse marching across the room, and grinned. "You musta been talkin' to Miz Ginger."

"Oh, you know her!"

"Yeah. I went to school with some of 'em. Her daughter was a couple grades behind me. The whole family's weird, but she kinda takes the cake. She's got some kinda problem, something like autism, but not so bad she has to be locked up. I never can remember the name…" She frowned in thought. "I always think it sounds like a vegetable. Asparagus Something."

"Asparagus? … Oh, wait, do you mean Asperger's Syndrome?"

Patty snapped her fingers and pointed at Wendy. "That's it! That name gives me a fit for some reason."

The vixen nodded, gazing after the mouse. "I see. That explains a lot, although I'd say she's got a pretty bad case. Okay. I feel a little better about her party then."

"Oooo! Are you gonna cater her Christmas party?"

"Looks like it. Why, is there something I should know about it?"

"It's a really fancy bash. Upper crust only need apply."

"Upper crust? Socially or politically?"

"Eh … socially, I guess. Buncha movers an' shakers, all of 'em totally rich." She chuckled quietly. "O' course that's just what I've heard. I certainly never got invited to any of those parties. But Chuck says they're a real snag in your shorts."

"Chuck?"

"Oh. Uh, that'd be Ms. Ginger's nephew. He's my age. We had some classes together."

"Uh-huh."

"When's she doin' it?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's, um, on the seventeenth. So let's see …" She opened her PA again and checked several items.

"Am I gonna be helping with that one?"

Wendy glanced up at the girl. "Hmm?"

"Well, you said I'd be temporary, just until your regular helper got back. But she's been back for a few days now, and … well …" She shrugged hopefully.

Wendy lightly patted her on the shoulder. "Yes, Patty. You'll be helping with the Christmas party. You're really pretty useful in the kitchen, you know."

"O-U-T-Standing!"

Wendy stood looking at the calendar display of her PA, thinking about the upcoming jobs. _With a bit of luck, I could make out pretty well off of these. And what was it Patty said? 'Social movers and shakers'? That sounds very, very promising._

She glanced over at the grandfather clock that stood opposite the ornate fireplace. "Hey, looks like it's time to start packing up. Patty, you want to tackle the punch? I'll put away the finger foods."

"Okay, Wendy."

##


	28. Chapter 4 Incidents & Accidents Part C

**_Chapter Four – Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations – Part C_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Honesty pays,  
****but it don't seem to pay enough  
****to suit some people.**

_**-Kin Hubbard, **_

##

_** Monday 28 November 2016, 9:55am **_

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

Wendy brought her PA around in front so she could see its display, noted the time, and shook her head with a frown.

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

This is ridiculous! Surely there will be someone there at this time of the morning! … ring … I mean, I can understand their being closed on the day after Thanksgiving, but come on!

… _ring …_

… _ring …_

_Not even a message on an answering machine? No voice mail? What kind of place are they running there, now that Harry's dead?_

… _ring …_

"Yates Law Firm. What is it you want?" The voice was female, and anything but cordial.

_Finally!_ "Good morning. This is Wendy Wylde. I need …" _Whoa! Hang on!_ "… Did you say 'Yates Law Firm'?"

"Yeah."

"Not 'Fenton and Associates' anymore?"

"Don't know any Fenton. What do you want?"

Wendy's frown deepened. "I, um, I need to speak with Mr. Yates concerning the monthly stipend I'm to receive from my uncle's will."

"Mr. Yates isn't here." Her tone made it very clear that she considered Wendy to be a complete waste of her valuable time.

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"No."

Wendy blinked in surprise. _'No'? That's it? What the hell's going on?_ "Can you at least give me an estimate?"

"Not really."

Wendy waited, in vain, for her to elaborate on that statement. "Uh … well, do you, um, know where he is at the moment?"

"The Seychelles."

"_What?"_

She cleared her throat. "He is not in this country at this time." Wendy inferred from her inflection that she was reading copy off a card. "He is vacationing in the Seychelles and will be unavailable until further notice." She stopped for a couple of seconds, and then asked, "Is that all you needed?"

"No! That's _not_ all! I need to know what happened with my stipend. Is there anyone else there I could talk with about it?"

"No."

"But what about Gaylord Fenton? I know he works there."

"Don't look like it, far as I can see."

"Uh … really?" _What the devil is going on?_ "There's _no one_ else there? No one at all?"

"No."

"So … you don't know anything about what goes on in the office there?"

"Look, lady, I can't help you. There ain't nobody else here. It's a ghost town, right? He just hired me to answer the phones. I don't know anything."

_Boy, you can say that again!_ "Well, can you at least get a message to him?"

"No. He didn't leave me any numbers. "

Wendy cursed under her breath.

"Okay. Fine. If he calls, would you please tell him to contact Wendy Wylde as soon as he can?"

"Yeah, whatever. I'll add it to the pile. But I ain't heard _squat_ from him since I got here last Monday, and my pay didn't deposit last Friday like it shoulda had, and if it don't by the end of the day, I'm outta here and he can shag his own damn messages!" And she hung up.

Wendy stared at the device in her paw for several seconds before slowly closing its cover and slipping it back into her pocket. _Something stinks about this whole setup! I wonder if he really is in the Seychelles, or if that's just some kind of cover. _ She sat and pondered for a while, then pulled her PA back out and hit one of the speed-call buttons. It was answered quickly.

"Addison County Sheriff's Office."

"Hi. This is Wendy Wylde. I'd like to file a complaint …"

##

**ASPERSE, v.t. Maliciously to ascribe to another vicious actions  
which one has not had the temptation and opportunity to commit. **

_**-Ambrose Bierce, from 'The Devil's Dictionary'**_

##

_** 11:20am **_

The elderly raccoon rocked slowly as he responded to Wendy's doubts about his suggestion. "All I'm a-sayin' is that you got nobody stayin' in them rooms right now. Be a good time t' spruce 'em up a little."

Wendy thought it over briefly, but shook her head. "Y'know, Quinn, I've gone over that scenario more than once in the last week or two. And if I had the cash I would. Really, I would." She drew a breath and sighed. "But what with this majorly serious drop-off in customers and my … um, the concerns I've had with my law firm, and that … that construction auditor guy coming out tomorrow … well, I just can't …" She caught the look of reproof he sent her. "… can't really think about it right now. Not seriously. Not that I wouldn't love to. It's just the timing."

He picked up his issue of the _Middlebury Banner_. "Suit y'self. Wasted opportun'ty if y'ask me." He opened the newspaper to the sports section and began reading.

Wendy gathered her few purchases and headed for the door, but her PA beeped at her halfway there. She fumbled both bags into the crook of one arm and pulled out the device, peering at the display: R. Fowler.

Fowler? Wasn't that the name of that pushy femme at the party?

She pressed the 'Answer' key and held the PA to her ear. "Hello?"

There was a two-second pause, then a mechanical voice asked her to "please call the following number …" and rattled off a ten-digit destination. _Humph. Assertive sort, ain't she?_ She keyed the number in and it was picked up in the middle of the first ring.

"Hello? Hello? Ms. Wylde? Are you there? Hello?" The words tripped each other getting out of her mouth.

"Whoa, slow down! Is this Rebecca Fowler?"

"Yes, yes, it's me!"

"Okay, fine. What's the problem?"

"We gotta move the date! They aren't getting here until the fourteenth! I need you to come on the seventeenth!"

"The seventeenth?"

"Yes!"

"Hang on. I don't think that's gonna work." Wendy glanced at the calendar, confirming her other commitment. "I've got another party that day, and it's a biggie."

"But you gotta! You just _gotta!_ I've already told my in-laws about the fish, and that's what they're expecting."

"Well, I'm sorry, ma'am, but this other engagement is a very firm one. I've already started working on some of the dishes, and there are fifty furs involved. There's no way I can change it now, especially since the hostess already sent me a hundred-dollar down payment to help defray the cost of the food."

"But what am I gonna do?"

"You could serve them something else. Or you could try to cook the fish yourse…"

"_No!_ That would be a _disaster!_ After what I've told 'em about … um, that is … um … well, what I mean is … um …"

"Let me guess. You've been bragging about how good the fish is, haven't you?"

Her pregnant silence told Wendy volumes.

"And let me guess again. They're the type who would be offended if you served anything else?"

"Well … _she_ is."

"Mrs. Fowler, I told you something like this might happen. I told you I needed a firm date. I warned you at the party last week that if you pretended …"

"That doesn't matter! If you'd just come over, like, between courses at the other party or something …"

"Oh, come on! There's no way I could do that! Your house has to be, what? I make it at least forty klicks from the other party. It's impossible, even if I could spare the time away from that big party, which I can't."

"Ms. Wylde, you gotta help me!"

"Can't you move it to a later date? I'll be free after the eighteenth."

"No! They've got something already planned for every other night they're here! You don't _know_ these people! They take anal-retentive to a whole new level. It's _got_ to be the seventeenth!"

"I simply can't do it on that day. I'm sorry."

"Pleeeeeeeease!"

Wendy struggled to control her temper. "You'll just have to get another caterer. I'm sorry, but we agreed on the tenth. If you have to cancel that date, I understand. But I'm booked on the seventeenth, as I already mentioned."

"I can't believe you're leaving me hanging like this!"

"_Me?_ Come off it! What do you really expect me to do?"

"I expect you to live up to your end of the bargain, that's what!"

"Fine." Wendy's muzzle set in a hard, thin line. "The bargain was for the tenth. I'll be there with bells on."

"But that won't do me any good!" she sobbed.

"And having you scream at me isn't doing me any good either. I have a legitimate business to run here. If you can't understand that, I'm sorry, but that's how it is."

"So you're really not coming?"

"I'll be happy to cook for you on the tenth."

Wendy winced slightly as the connection abruptly broke. _Geez, what a bitch! _She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned.

"Got problems?"

"Oh, Quinn, it's that ridiculous marten girl who kept bothering me at the party last weekend. She wants me to come out the same day as that big to-do I'm catering for Ginger Piercer. And I can't break that one."

"Ayah. Be a bad idea. Gingah's got no sense of humah and less patience. If'n you done told her you'd do the food, you'd better do the food."

"Right. That's what I thought, but Mrs. Fowler was being totally unreasonable."

"Ehn. Don't know 'er. But I reckon you did the right thing."

"Thanks, Quinn."

##

Rebecca Fowler stomped around her bedroom in frustration. How _dare_ that Wylde woman treat her like that! She had the gall! Stupid vixen couldn't even bend just a _little_. It wasn't as if she were asking for the moon!

She finally plumped down on her bed, sulking. She'd been dead right about one thing in her conversation with Wendy. If she tried to prepare the meal herself, it _would_ be a disaster. But she prided herself on being logical under pressure, so she did a few deep breathing exercises to try to calm down so she could think.

That stupid bitch said to get another caterer. Like they grow on trees! Like I know any caterers!

She leaned back on the pillows and thought it over … and over … and over … and kept bumping smack into the same conclusion: she needed to find somebody who could copy that fish recipe for her. If that stupid vixen wouldn't do it, she'd have to find someone who would. She rolled over and grabbed the landline, hitting the speed-dial for her husband's office. It rang several times before the secretary answered.

"Fowler-Moorecote _(huff)_ Enterprises. _(huff)_"

"Hey, Selena, this is Rebecca. Is Rupert there?"

"Rebecca! Um, Rupert, um … Oh … he, uh, he's … stepped out … for lunch, I think."

Rebecca thought the mink seemed a little out-of-breath. "Selena, are you feeling okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure! Just fine. No problem." But she continued to pant despite her protests.

"You sound like you've been running or something."

"Ah … um, I just, uh, came … _up!_ Right! That is, I came up the stairs. From the ground floor."

"Oh. Okay. Well, when Rupert gets back, tell him to call me."

"Sure thing."

"See ya."

"Bye."

As Rebecca was setting her phone back in its cradle, she thought, _"She walked up from the ground floor? Up twelve flights? What, was the elevator broken or something?"_

##

Rupert Fowler took the pawset from Selena, turned off the ringer, and laid it on the desk. "Nicely done. Now, let's get back to our 'lunch', shall we?"

"That was Rebecca!"

"So I heard."

Selena bit her lip pensively. "Oh, Roo, I feel so sorry for her. When she figures out …"

He put a finger across her lips and said, "Not to worry. She won't." _Because she's a damn fool!_ "She'll be fine. You just worry about you." He slid a paw across the nape of her neck, under her long headfur, massaging gently. Her wide-spaced, deep-blue eyes closed most of the way as she leaned eagerly into his touch. "You're too tense. Just let me drive. I've got a few more things to show you …"

##

"Kamryn? Hey, it's me."

"Hey, Bec! What's the stir?"

"I'll tell you what! It's that femme who said she'd cater for me when Rupert's parents visit!"

"What about her? I thought you said she was _faaaahh_-bulous."

"Her food is. She isn't. Give a listen to what she did to me, purely out of spite …"

##

"Giselle?"

"Kamryn! Hi-ee! You gonna make it to lunch with us today?"

"You bet! But first I gotta let you in on what happened to Rebecca."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You ever heard of Ash Creek Catering? …"

##

"Hi Hildie! What's up?"

"Oh, Sheila, you'll never guess what Giselle told me!"

"Sounds big."

"You know Becky Fowler, don't you?"

"Sure! Why, did something happen to her?"

"Oh, girl, you just don't know how mean some furs can be!"

"Who's bein' mean?"

"That vixen that runs that Café out on the old Vulpin place."

"What, that big old estate-looking spread with that monster house?"

"Yeah! You'll never believe …"

##

"Anna-Marie, have you heard the latest juice on the Fowlers?"

"You mean Becky and Roo?"

"Ayah."

"Juicy juice?"

"The juiciest! It seems Rupert's been stepping out with some rich vixen. She's even got an estate south of Barnumtown and everything. He's out there, like, every weekend."

"_Rupert?_ Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah. I got it straight from Kaylie Verrid, and she got it from Allyson McBride, and you know Allyson's reliable on stuff like this."

"Rupert _Fowler?_ He doesn't seem like the type."

"What, to cheat? Honey-Bear, _all_ males are the type under the right conditions."

"So how long has this been going on? Does Becky know about it?"

"Oh, she's trying to hold it together, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time …"

##

Darrel Lycaon had caught the tail end of his wife's phone conversation, and confronted her about what he'd heard. "You can't be serious."

"Sweetie, you know Carol wouldn't lie to me about a thing like this!"

"That doesn't mean somefur else didn't lie to her. I can't believe Rupert would cheat on Rebecca. He dotes on her!"

"Well, from what I heard, that vixen could lure any guy off the straight-and-narrow."

He shot her a look.

She amended her statement. "Okay, present company excluded." She ruffled his headfur.

He shook his head in wonderment. "I dunno. I think I'll have to have a talk with Mr. Fowler, get his side of the story, before putting any credence in this wild rumor."

"Well, you didn't hear it from _me_ if he asks!"

"Humph."

"Seriously, Darrel, please don't tell him! He'll know who told me, and …"

"Okay, fine. Listen, we go the same gym. If I see him, I'll try to find out the real lowdown."

"You're on your way there now, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he responded, smiling. "Until you sidetracked me."

"Well, if you do talk to him, please keep my name out of it!"

##

Darrel was coming out of the locker room and almost bumped into Rupert. The marten recovered quickly.

"Whoa, there buddy! No fire alarm, ya know."

"Right. Sorry."

"Hey, listen, is the gym very crowded? I saw a slew of cars in the lot."

"Yeah, it's pretty packed." At that instant, Darrel's sensitive nose caught an unmistakable whiff of perfume. Simultaneously, he felt the visceral tug of female pheromones, and his eyes narrowed. He took a step back, staring at Rupert.

Rupert gave him a funny look. "What's wrong?"

Darrel didn't say anything for several long moments, but then he commented, "I didn't want to believe it. Rebecca deserves better."

"Rebecca? What the hell are you talking about?"

Again with the stare. "I just hope you know what you're doing … and who you're doing it to." And as Darrel stalked off down the hall toward the exit, Rupert had a decidedly unpleasant crawling sensation attach itself to his spine.

_Damn! _

_Does he know what it __sounds__ like he knows? _

_How __could__ he? _

_Who __else__ knows? _

_What do I do now?_

##

**Reputation is only a candle,  
****of wavering and uncertain flame, and easily blown out,  
****but it is the light by which the world looks for and finds merit.**

_**- James Russell Lowell**_

##

_** Tuesday 29 November 2016, 6:15am **_

Karl sat in his rented sedan, studying the house, going through the dozen or so alternate plans he'd come up with for interacting safely (he hoped) with Nicu Porr. He'd arrived the night before, and taken a room at the less dingy of the two motels in the nearby town of Northwood, but had spent very little time there. Instead, he reconnoitered the land north of Schaeffer Road, covering the area around his quarry's residence.

In the wee hours of the previous Saturday morning, he'd taken a deepscan unit out to the Inn and had a good look at the items the two Dalmatians had buried beside the foundation: this had served to confirm his magic-use hypothesis. Several of the objects were standard fare in "witch bottle" charms, and if that crystal-and-tooled-leather combination wasn't a protective ward, he'd dig it up and eat it, dirt and all.

Karl had shared what he'd learned with Alan, who had advised dropping the whole thing since it appeared that Mr. Porr was, if anything, an ally. But that was the thing that puzzled Karl most, the thing that had the firmest grip on his interest. He could accept that the old Gypsy was working with Wendy's weal as his object … but he wanted to get to the bottom of _why_. Alan said he thought that it had something to do with Brightlimb Stephens' coven and the visions his mate had suffered. Karl was a bit more skeptical. After all, he reasoned, Wendy had never mentioned to _him_ that she'd been plagued with nightmares.

It hadn't helped his mood any when Alan reminded him, gently, that it was just possible that Wendy didn't confide in him for every little bump in the road.

After that, Alan had gone back home and Karl had gone to work, hacking into every pertinent database he could access, and had at length uncovered the familial relationship between Brightlimb's mate and Nicu Porr. If Wendy really were being attacked through some supernatural avenue, Karl wanted to know all the details.

_So the question is, and remains to be, how do I contact him without spooking him?_

"Have try maybe to ask?"

Karl flinched so hard at those words that the top curve of the steering wheel snapped off in his grip. His head whipped around to stare at the figure beside him in the passenger seat. The old Dalmatian met his gaze impassively.

Karl mouthed the word, "How?" a few times.

Nicu shrugged. "Is not hard. You hit ward. I come see. You no see me."

"Ah … um … I, uh …"

"You damn good kid." He punched Karl's arm lightly. "Have wine? You like? Retsina Kourtaki in house. We talk."

"Retsina." Karl shook himself free of the momentary confusion. "Right. Dessert wine for breakfast." He felt a lopsided grin crawl across his muzzle. "Why not?"

"Hokay. You drive."

"Over to your house?"

"Is right. Too stinking cold for walk. I walk to here. You drive now."

Karl could not help the chuckles that bubbled up. _If nothing else, this will be a good opportunity to learn a new language._

##


	29. Chapter 4 Incidents & Accidents Part D

**_Chapter Four – Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations – Part D_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** __Tuesday 29 November 2016, _1:40pm **

Wendy stalked across the sidewalk toward Quinn's, struggling with alternating impulses to curse or to cry.

She hadn't started the day in the best of spirits in the first place. Karl's standing Tuesday night reservation had been the only thing on the radar for the immediate future, customer-wise. This week's menu included a selection of Yucatan-based dishes, heavy on the manzanas and red savinas, and featuring pork and black beans … certainly nothing anyone else would be remotely interested in eating. It wasn't just the income that she looked forward to, either, since he was one of the few locals that she could talk to without having to mount a governor to her vocabulary. But in her office e-mail he had left a very brief message to the effect that he was going to be out of town and wouldn't be able to make it. He arranged payment for the forfeited meal, but it didn't appreciably lessen her disappointment.

The site-construction auditor had left her a distressingly long list of changes (most of which she considered _unbelievably_ minor) that would have to be completed to bring the Inn fully up to code as a commercial enterprise. Nothing on the list would be all that difficult or time-consuming in itself … but there were just so blasted **_many_** of them! And several items would run into quite a bit of that money she didn't have. He'd been pleasant enough – certainly nothing like the first inspector – but to her mind he hadn't been really satisfied with much of anything. The provisional permit he left her gave her forty-five days to fix everything, after which he'd return for the follow-up.

Yippee.

So she'd gotten an early start this morning, detaching the three fire extinguisher mounts she already had, and moving them upward by the fifty-five millimeters specified on his list. She'd have to get another half-dozen of the mounts, and three more extinguishers, for other locations he'd marked around the house. And that was just one of the sixty-odd points he'd written down, from the tread covers on the spiral staircases and the new fan for the exhaust hood in the kitchen, to the crash bars on certain exit doors and the lengthy list of signage he wanted put up. She'd have to fix almost two things per day to make his deadline, and while she thought she could probably do it, she wasn't looking forward to it in any respect. She made a "Quinn list", plowed a path down to the road, and drove into town (in low gear, slipping and sliding and cursing the latest layer of freezing rain the whole way.)

There were plenty of parking spots at Quinn's. _Figures. I guess there aren't many others as desperate – or maybe just as loony – as I am today._ She held the door for the middle-aged feline who was exiting the general store, and failed to notice when a look of recognition came over his face. As she entered the store, he stared after her speculatively before turning and hurrying on down the street. She walked over to where the old raccoon sat, snuggled up to the glowing stove.

"Hey Quinn!"

He gave her a narrow look, nodded toward one of the other two rocking chairs, and said, "Set ya down."

"Thanks." She did so, then scooted it around to place her feet under the front of the stove, rubbing them on the warm floor. It lifted her spirits immediately. _That's the ticket!_ _Nothing like toasty footpads when it's way below freezing outside._ She shucked out of her parka, tossed it over the back of the rocker, and remarked, "Getting colder every day."

"That right?"

"Oh, yeah," she replied, dimpling. "You'd know that if you ever bothered to step outside." She winked at him and grinned.

He stroked his muzzle reflectively, watching her closely. _Time to get to the bottom of this rumor about her and that Fowler boy. _ "S'pose it's cold out t' ya place, too."

"Well, it would be if I didn't keep the furnace going full blast." She pulled her list out of a pocket. "Even then I have to wear a sweater most days, being as how the walls could stand a bit more insulation. And I keep lots of quilts on the bed."

"What I been hearin', you done figgered other ways o' keepin' warm out thaya lately."

"Yeah, I guess. Listen, I've gotta get this …" She blinked, looked up, and met his gaze. "Excuse me?"

"Like it says in the Good Book."

"Good Book?"

"Ayah. Two under one blanket. That'd be 'cclesiates, as I recollect."

"Uh … okay. I don't think I follow you."

"It'd be none o' my business, I reckon, but ya can't blame a fella for bein' worrited over a friend when he sees her bollixin' up."

This conversation was beginning to strike her as rather odd. "What would be none of your business?"

He ignored the question. "Piece of advice. I'd be sommat careful choosin' a bedmate."

"Ahhh … bedmate?"

He bobbed his head once. "Ayah. They be some as better'n others."

"No argument there."

He nodded again, curtly, as if making a point. She waited, but he didn't say anything else. "So … that means what?"

He made a clicking sound and gave his head a slight shake. "Tongues wag. Furs 'round heah mebbe don't know ya too well. Don't know ya family at all. Ya don't want to be givin' folks anythin' to talk about. They don't need a lot o' promptin'."

She folded her list, put her paws in her lap and turned slightly to face him. "All right. I'm officially confused now."

"Like I said. None o' my business. Thought ya ought ta know." He reached for his newspaper and opened it to the sports section.

"You're gonna have to do better than that. What are you saying?"

"Just what I said. Ya want t' be careful."

"About bedmates?"

"Ayah."

She sighed heavily._ He can be so damned cryptic!_ "Okay. You've made your point. So my last few relationships didn't turn out so hot. So I have a problem when it comes to picking partners, or maybe my radar just stays jammed. So I appreciate your concern, and I agree to be 'careful'," and here she made little tick-marks in the air, "if it ever comes up again."

He glanced over the top of the paper. "Ya mean that?"

"About being careful? Well, duh! I don't go out of my way looking for toxic affairs. Who would?"

"That mean ya breakin' off this latest fling?"

She gave him a wry grimace. _Okay, I think I get it now. He heard about Ellen and that Mexican. I know he never really did approve of my dating Ellen, especially with her being my employee, and he's trying to clue me in that I was being an idiot, but without hurting my feelings by coming right out and saying so. That's actually kind of sweet, in a way._ "I believe I see where you're coming from, Quinn, and I hate to say it, but you're absolutely right. The last one got broken off _for_ me. Guess I wasn't paying attention to the details … or maybe I just didn't _want_ to see because I was afraid of being on the losing end. Again. Gotta admit the news about the marriage was a helluva shock, but it's probably what I needed to hear. That's all history now anyway."

He started slightly when she mentioned marriage, and leaned forward in the chair, fixing her with a hard gaze. "Marriage?"

"Uh-huh." She noted the intensity of his expression with mild surprise. _Wow._ _I didn't know he cared that much about my welfare._

"You sayin' ya didn't know marriage figgered into it?"

"What? No! Oh, _hell_, no! You think I'm clairvoyant or something? I got totally blindsided."

"That right?" He seemed unusually pleased by her admission. "And ya say it's over now?"

"Completely. And even with it being as much fun as it was, I don't think I'd have gotten involved if I'd known how it was all gonna fall out. I'd like to be able to stay friends now, but I don't know."

"Friends? Do ya really think that's a good idee, bein' that close ta someone who shared your bed?"

"Eh. We'll see. After being involved, you know, _that_ way, it can be kinda … awkward."

"Ta say th' least!"

"Well whichever way it goes, I'll be as circumspect as I know how to be." She shook her head emphatically. "No _way_ do I want to go through that again."

"Ahuh! Well. That's good ta know." _And maybe that means the Fowlers can patch things back up. Guess it depends on whether Becca wants to forgive him or not. Him not saying anything to Wendy about being married clears up a lot of things I was wondering about._ He reached over and gave her a quick pat. "Ayah. Might be learnin' somethin' after all."

"I hope so."

She picked up her paper and waved it. "But that's all yesterday's news, and I need to get back to this list. As you like to say, we're burning daylight, and I have a lot to do."

"Fair 'nough. What all ya need?"

_Good! Back on track, finally._ "Let's start with the plumbing. You think it would be better to use seamless copper pipe and sweat connections, or that extruded PTK and glue?"

"Eh. Copper's good, but any more I'd go with th' plastic, now they got the kinks worked out o' that adhesive. Not so much worry about frozen pipes that way …"

##

_** Wednesday 30 November 2016, 10:20am **_

Wendy had finished installing the "new-and-improved" weather seals on the exterior doors, and was cuddled up with a mug of hot cocoa, taking a short break, when she heard the sound of a large diesel engine coming from outside. Curious, she rose and padded to the Folly, giving a little shriek of delight when she identified the Cheetah-Paw logo on the side of the big RV coming to a stop in the drive. She set her mug on a window sill and ran to the front door.

Cheetaur spotted her as soon as the vixen emerged, and the two femmes met at the base of the steps for a quick hug and an "air kiss". The 'taur feline was bundled up in one of her trademark white cashmere sweaters, the tail of the garment covering her back and rear, and meeting along her belly in a Velcro strip.

A crew member was pulling a large case out of one of the two vans that trailed in the RV's wake. He called, "Hey Cheets, where ya wanna set up for the first series?"

She surveyed the pristine white landscape with obvious satisfaction. Pointing, she said, "Over there, so we can get the north side of the meadow as a backdrop." Turning to Wendy, she remarked, "This snow is perfect." Her breath made a line of little white puffs that drifted slowly off to the south.

"Maybe for your purposes. You wouldn't think so if you had to slog through it every day."

"Oh, I don't know. Most of new England is covered this week. We've been driving in it for days, and I haven't noticed any problems."

Her driver, who happened to be walking by carrying a light stand, offered, "That's 'cause _you_ ain't the one doin' the driving."

"Right, Don," she replied agreeably. "And that's why _you_ pull down the big bucks."

He snorted a short laugh and trundled on toward the tree line.

She called after him, "And be sure not to track up the spots where we want to shoot!"

He gave her an off-paw wave. Cheetaur turned back to Wendy. "How you been, girlfriend?"

"Eh. Truth to tell, I've been a little lonesome."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. This crappy weather has just about dried up my business." She clasped Cheetaur's paw in hers. "Having you guys here for a day or two is just the sort of diversion I need to keep from going stark raving nuts."

"Well, I don't know how much entertainment we'll be …"

"Oh, you don't have to 'be entertaining'. Just having someone else around – someone new and different, that is – will do fine."

Cheetaur shrugged. "Cool."

"Hey, howsabout a midmorning snack for the crew?"

The big feline stuck two fingers into her mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. Several heads popped around. "Come on in, guys! Eats!"

##

_** 8:05pm **_

Cheetaur and four of the crew had cleared off a table in the library and were having a great deal of fun teaching Wendy how to play "Double-deck Cancellation Spot Pink Lady Hooligan Hearts". They were well-supplied with finger-food and each fur's poison-of-choice, and Wendy's mood had done a total one-eighty from the doldrums she'd awoken with. As the round ended, she tossed off her neat scotch, pushed her chair back, and asked, "Anyone else need a refill?"

There was a general chorus of assent, and she moved over to the bar to collect a few bottles. The big feline 'taur joined her there. "You wouldn't happen to have any Campari, would you?"

"Mm-hmm. You want a Campari Orange?"

"You bet."

"Layered or swirled?"

"Oh, layered! That's the only way to drink it."

"Uh-huh. Well, you know that, and I know that, but you'd be surprised how many …"

Her driver, Don, ran into the room just then. "Hey guys, you been listening to the weather in here at all?"

He was met by a chorus of blank looks. Wendy said, "No, we've been playing cards. Why? What's up?"

"Blizzard's on its way. Channel seven says to stay off the roads at least through tomorrow night. Says it'll dump a good meter on us."

"Blizzard?" exclaimed Cheetaur. "Oh, crap! We've gotta be in New York on Sunday! I'm gonna be on Taylor's Town!"

"Now hold on, Cheets," Wendy cautioned. "If there's one thing I've learned about the weather around here it's that it can be pretty unpredictable. They might get a meter and a half over by the Lake and we'd never even see a cloud. I wouldn't get everybody running in circles just yet."

Don shook his head. "I looked. It's comin' down right now."

With Cheetaur following her closely, Wendy trotted to the window and drew back the curtain. Sure enough, the fat, white flakes were falling in thick swirls in the rising wind. The vixen cursed softly.

"Ooo, girl, what you said!"

She gave Cheetaur a sideways look and shrugged, grinning a little. "Actually, I really just feel bad for you guys. From my perspective all it means is that boredom won't be a problem for me for a little while longer. But shoot, if you miss getting on Taylor's Town just because you got stuck here …"

"Ehn. I wouldn't worry about it. They're the ones that have been after us. We can always reschedule. And who knows? It might melt off enough for us to make it out. Or it might not snow enough to keep us bottled up."

"Hmm. Maybe." Wendy looked back out at the snow. _On the one paw I wish I was a little more familiar with what a blizzard looks like; on the other, I'm glad I'm not._

##


	30. Chapter 4 Incidents & Accidents Part E

**_Chapter Four – Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations – Part E_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Thursday 01 December 2016, 5:42am **_

Wendy, upon finding Cheetaur crouched beside the kitchen table and nursing a cup of coffee, remarked, "Whoa! You're up early."

"Yeah. Couldn't sleep."

"I know what you mean." She stared meaningfully at the ceiling. "That wind …"

"Right. That wind. You got yerself a mighty musical house here, girl."

"If you mean that harmonic moaning, I think it's the eaves. I've only been in the house since June, so I can't say if it ever did it before, but I bet the new copper roof has something to do with it, too."

Cheetaur waved an absent paw. "Whatever. I woke up an hour ago, and I was thinking, 'Is this place haunted?' I got up and walked around a little, just listening to it. Most godawful thing I ever tried to sleep through."

"Well, it's never been this bad before."

"You did mention you'd only been here a few months. Is this the first blizzard you've had?"

"Ehhhhh … Yeah. I guess so. We've had a hell of a lot of snow, but nothing like this. Til now, that is."

They both paused, listening, as a particularly strong blow came by. The walls of the house creaked and one of the windows over the sink rattled in protest, allowing a tiny stray wisp of winter cold into the kitchen. The big 'taur shook her head and grimaced in respect. "Hell of a lot of _storm_ is what it is."

"Yeah." Wendy got a kettle off the rack, filled it at the sink, and set it on the stove. "I'm gonna make some green tea. You care for any?"

"Sounds good."

Wendy puttered at the counter for a minute before Cheetaur asked, "Is there wood in the library already, or is some poor sap gonna have to step out into that to get it?"

"I don't know if there's wood in the library, but I know there's a big supply of it in a little ground-floor storage room in the north wing of the house. I put it there for just such occasions, after the first snow."

"Smart."

"It was Quinn's suggestion. I probably wouldn't have thought of it myself, not being used to winters like these."

"Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll go start a fire in there. Not that the central heat doesn't do a good job, but there's just something really comforting about a fire. Feels good on my fur."

"Don't let _me_ discourage you. As soon as my tea's ready, I'll join you there."

"Cool." Cheetaur topped off her coffee from the pot and padded out toward the Main Hall.

##

By the time breakfast rolled around, most of the crew was awake and had congregated around the library fireplace. Wendy was met by a general acclamation when she wheeled a pastry cart into the big room. She gave the guys a quick rundown of the menu, then joined Cheetaur at the main window. The only way they could tell that dawn had arrived was that the swirling snow was a somewhat lighter shade of gray.

"I see it hasn't let up yet."

"Nope."

"Doesn't look like you're going to make your appointment."

Cheetaur shrugged. "There'll be other weekends. Heck, I might even get a little action from one of their competitors. Not that I expect the Tonight Show to call anytime soon. Leno's got bigger fish to fry these days."

"Oh, you're a hot property. I bet they'll be more upset about it than you are."

The big femme sighed and turned from the window. "I suppose I should call Jerry and let him know. Been putting it off, since I haven't exactly been looking forward to giving him the news. He's gonna be pissed."

"What for? It's not like you can control the weather."

"Oh, it's just his way. Usually he recovers pretty quick, y'know? But he's got a real short temper. Not much fun while he's yelling."

"I'll bet."

Cheetaur stopped and surveyed the cart. "So what's for breakfast? Anything a disgruntled feline might be interested in?"

"You could try the tuna puffs …"

##

_** 4:10pm **_

Wendy had supplied her large guest with a sheepskin comforter, which Cheetaur folded and plopped down in front of the fireplace. She was happy simply to curl up on it and luxuriate in the warmth of the flames, and had spent most of the day doing just that while the vixen puttered around at the various items on her 'to-do' list.

With very few lulls, the storm howled and the snow fell all day. The white stuff had slacked off a good bit in the last half-hour, although the wind continued to pile up drifts out of what had already come down, which meant the front lawn was nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. Some of the furs (between card games) followed the progress of the blizzard on one of the Weather Channels, which showed that it was blanketing the country from Lake Huron to points east, well up into Canada, and as far south as Washington, D.C. One of the crew commented to Cheetaur that since New York was getting hammered about as badly as they were, he thought Mr. Taylor might not be able even to make it to his own set, and that she shouldn't worry about missing the show.

"Just think of it as a mini-vacation, Cheets. We'll stay here and lounge around for a few more days on the company dole. There ain't a whole lot they can say about it. Ain't like we got us a choice."

"Oh, you're right, Chuck. You're right. I just hate to take advantage of Ms. Wylde's hospitality. I doubt she planned for us to stay for a week, since we didn't even know exactly when we'd be coming back."

Wendy came into the room at that point, and announced that supper would be ready in an hour, that she had gracious plenty supplies, _thankyouverymuch_, and that they were welcome to stay as long as they liked. "If you've never been stuck in the middle of nowhere with nobody to talk for days on end, you probably don't understand, but it can get really bad. And business has been totally dead recently. Really, having you all here is a windfall for me. It'll be deadly dull after you leave."

A rabbit doe named Cheri Oryctola, who was Cheetaur's lighting specialist and the only other femme on team, had been staring out the window, fascinated by the high drifts. Having recently moved to the northeast from that part of Texas near the mouth of the Rio Grande, snow of any kind had been a novelty for her, and seeing millions of tons of it lying all over the landscape still boggled her a bit. She wanted the wind to die down so she could go out and play in it. The Cheetah-Paw Tire Company had graciously supplied them with parkas and other cold-weather gear, and she was itching to give them a try.

"Penny for your thoughts."

She glanced around at Wendy. "Oh! Hi. Um, nothing much, really. I just … well, I just wondered if I'd have a chance to build a snowfur. That's all."

"Sounds like fun. Maybe we can do that tomorrow, weather permitting."

"Probably not." She turned back to the window. "Cheets will have us all working as soon as this blizzard thing goes away."

"Eh. All work and no play? Maybe building a snowfur would fit in with her plans." She frowned. "What _are_ her plans, anyway? I haven't thought to ask yet."

But Cheri didn't answer. She'd spotted something that caught her interest, and pressed her nose against the glass. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Wendy squinted through the window into the soft whiteness outside.

"There!" Cheri pointed. Something was moving out by the road at the north end of the meadow.

"Uh … I can't make it out. Still too much snow comin' down."

Two of the guys drifted over. Chuck asked, "What's up?"

"I don't know yet. Can you see what's moving around out there?"

"Moving? Is there somefur out there?"

Don shook his head. "Can't be. Too damn cold. It's way below zero, and that ain't even considerin' the wind."

Wendy clicked her tongue. "Got that right. I heard the wind chill in Albany was around fifty below at noon, and I doubt they had wind as strong as this."

"Well somebody's out there," Chuck protested.

Don wasn't convinced. "You sure?"

"Yeah … yeah, I b'lieve so." He was staring hard at the moving object. "Looks like a fur to me. I think he's wearing a blue parka. Got some blue on it, anyhow."

"Out in that he'd better have on a space suit."

"Maybe he does. We'll find out soon enough. He's comin' this way. Makin' good time, too."

The rest of the crew crowded around the window, and in a minute they all could see the newcomer. Cheetaur was the first to correctly identify him. "Sunnumbitch! That's not a white parka! That's a polar bear!" Her pronouncement started an avalanche of commentary.

"A polar bear! That explains …"

"Well, of course! Nobody else would …"

"Yeah, he won't have a bit of trouble with …"

"Dayam! Never met a polar bear before …"

"How close is he now? Nothin' around to give him any scale …"

"They get pretty big I hear …"

Wendy watched in silence as the bear moved quickly up the long expanse of white, plowing through the snow that reached halfway up his thighs. _Is that a pack on his back? Or another fur? It's awfully big. But then, he looks big, too. Wonder if he's as big as Karl?_

In another quarter-minute he was close enough that the group decided to reconvene in the foyer, as a welcoming committee.

It was a little chilly in the ornate entrance hall. Wendy made sure that all the inside doors to the foyer were closed, so it would act as sort of an airlock, and watched through the peek-hole as the bear came up toward the porch, her eyes getting bigger with each of his long strides. He was enormous. Colossal. Taller than Karl by a paw's breadth at least, and much, much more massive. His upper arms were easily bigger around than her waist. He crossed the wide porch in two long steps and had drawn back a massive arm to hammer on the frame when Wendy opened the door.

"Come in, please! And hurry!"

He scooted in and Wendy closed the door quickly as the rest of the group goggled at the huge white fur. The blue patch that Chuck had noticed turned out to be a blue tee-shirt with a large red-and-gold "Superfur" emblem on the front. He immediately slipped out of his oversized pack. Placing it gently on the polished floor, he said, "Get some water on to boil. And some warm blankets."

"What?"

"Look." He opened the top of the pack, reached in with both paws, and pulled out … a little girl. "She's pretty cold. I put an electric paw-warmer in there with her, but I don't know how much good it did."

There was a chorus of gasps. Cheetaur leaned over and brushed the long white bangs out of her face, noting that she was a lop rabbit, could not have been more than three years old, and was shivering badly. Cheri made cooing noises and reached for her, taking the tiny doe into her arms. Cheetaur led the way toward the kitchen, the rest of the troupe following her in a close knot. Wendy stayed with the other new arrival as he tied his pack back up and hefted it to a shoulder, then followed the group down the Main Hall.

She asked the bear, "Think she's okay?"

"Far as I can tell. I'm no doc, though."

"She yours?"

"No."

"Uh … then where …?"

"Few klicks north of here. Car skidded off the road, piled up in a ditch."

Wendy turned concerned eyes on his face, tracing the grim set of his muzzle. "Was she … alone?"

"No."

"No?"

He glanced over at her briefly. "It, um … it wouldn't have done any good to bring the others."

Wendy closed her eyes, pressing a fist against her forehead. "Oh, hell."

"That about sums up my reaction, too."

They turned the corner into the rear hall just as Cheri and Cheetaur got to the kitchen. Wendy asked him, "What in the world were you doing out there in that storm? I mean, it's good that you found her and all, but did your car break down, too, or what?"

"Nah. Don't have my jeep with me."

"You were … on foot?"

He nodded.

She looked out the windows at the howling wind twisting through the forest behind the Inn. "In that?"

"Yep."

"Whatever for?"

"Sightseeing."

She stopped, staring at him, so he stopped as well and turned slightly to face her. He said, "It never has gotten cold enough to bother me. I'm built for it." He shrugged the unburdened shoulder. "It's a bear thing. Fact is, I start looking for some place to cool off if the temperature gets much over ten degrees."

"So … where do you live?"

"Alaska. In-country. I'm a game management officer in the Charley River National Preserve."

"Oh." They resumed walking toward the kitchen. "Long way from home."

"Well, like I said, I'm sightseeing. Never been in New England before. I was over on the west side of Lake Superior and heard that Vermont and New Hampshire were getting some real snow for a change, so I did a little research on the area. Flew to Burlington Tuesday evening. Got in just before they closed the airport. Thought I'd walk down to Montpelier, then over to Bar Harbor, maybe climb the Knife Edge on Mount Katahdin along the way. This blizzard was a pleasant little surprise." His brows drew together as they reached the kitchen. "Until I came across that car."

"How long do you think she was out there?" They stopped at the door of the kitchen, watching as the rest fussed around the little girl. Cheetaur had taken command of the operation.

"Hard to tell. They were stiff. There was no smell of decay, but it was colder than your average refrigerator in the car, so there wouldn't be for quite a while. She was wrapped up in both of her parents' overcoats. At least I guess they were her parents. Both gray rabbits, like her." He reached around and fished something out of the pack. "I got their licenses and PA's and some other stuff I found." He passed her the items. "Maybe you can find out who they were, contact next-of-kin, that sort of thing."

Wendy had to juggle the objects briefly. Everything had fit comfortably into his palm, but she wasn't built on the same scale and it took both paws to get it all collected. "Um … right. I'll go put this in my office for now."

He discerned her difficulty and held his paw back out, palm up. "I'm sorry. Here, I'll carry 'em. Just lead the way."

She deposited everything back in his paw and said, "This way."

As they went back toward the Main Hall, he said, "Normally I try not to forget my manners, but this has been a bad day." He stuck out his empty paw. "I'm Caspian. Caspian Furmark."

She laid a slim paw in his, amazed again at the marked disparity in size. "Wendy Wylde. Pleased to meet you."

"Same here. Wish it could be under better circumstances."

"Yeah."

She ducked into her office niche and Caspian passed her the various articles he'd taken from the wreck. She piled it all on her desk and came back out. Caspian gave her an arched eyebrow, looked pointedly from the items he'd given her, then to the phone, and then back to her.

She put her paws on her hips. "What?"

"You just gonna leave the stuff there?"

"You have a better idea?"

"Yeah! Call somebody!"

"Won't be much point in trying to get in touch with anyone now."

"How's that?"

"All the government offices are closed on account of the weather, and the police are all busy with emergencies. They don't have time for anything that isn't immediately life-threatening."

He just stared at her for a moment, and then asked, "Serious?"

"Yep. But don't worry, we'll call tomorrow." She paused in thought and then looked up at him speculatively. "Hey. Are you hungry? It'll be suppertime soon, and you're welcome to join us if you like."

But Caspian didn't feel like leaving the issue alone. "You tellin' me that _no one_ is gonna be available? I can't believe it! The weather isn't _that_ bad!"

"Eh … actually, yeah, it is. To everyfur around here."

"Good grief," he snorted in disgust. "What a buncha …" He stopped and shook his head. "No. That's not really being fair, is it?"

"Not really, no. We can't all be polar bears."

"Yeah," he answered agreeably. "Can't all be that lucky."

"Oh, a dig!"

"You started it."

"Fair call." She gave him a little grin. "So how about supper?"

"Yeah, sounds great. Count me in. I think I could pay proper respect to a meal."

"Would you like to stow that pack somewhere? It looks awfully heavy." She gave him another up-and-down glance. "Though you probably didn't notice, come to think of it."

"It's no problem. I'll just keep it with me."

"Suit yourself." They headed back to the kitchen again. "You _are_ planning to stay the night, aren't you? I can't see you going back out into that, polar bear or not."

"I'll be happy to stick around if it doesn't put you out, but I'm afraid I can't sleep indoors. It's just too blamed hot." He nodded toward the rear of the house. "That porch looks good, though. If you've got a spare futon or something lying around that I could curl up on, it'd be perfect."

"Perfect, huh?" She almost snickered, but they both heard a thin wail coming from the kitchen, and broke into a fast trot.

Cheri was sitting on the heat register, cuddling the little doe, who had just that moment realized that she was no longer in the car, and the femme holding her was a stranger. She cried, "_Mom_ma! … _Mom_ma! … _Mom_ma! …" gulping in a lung-full of air between each word. "Wan' my _Mom_ma!" She twisted away from Cheri and looked wildly around the room. "_Mom_ma!"

Wendy was about to say something, but then she realized that the others hadn't heard the rest of the story, and clammed up.

Cheri tried to comfort the frantic little girl. "It's okay, honey, it's okay! It's okay! Your Momma's not here, but we'll take care of you until we can find your family, okay?"

The child pushed Cheri's paw away. "Wan' my _Mom_ma! Momma wis 'sweep! Sie dit me anight!" She threw her head back and wailed, "Moooommmmaaaaa!"

Wendy frowned. "_What_ did she say?"

"She thinks her mother's asleep, and that she's … _sniff_ … she's going to come and … get her tonight."

Wendy looked up at the huge fur, perceiving with some surprise that he was crying. _Now, Wendy, don't be like that. Just because he's big doesn't mean he doesn't have a soft spot._ She asked, "Are you okay?"

He wiped his eyes and nodded. But he turned and walked away down the hall, and thence out to the rear porch where he folded himself into a sitting position on the stair. He flopped his pack down onto the boards beside him, and dropped his head into his paws. Wendy considered him for a moment … looked back into the kitchen at the group around the little girl … and then turned her gaze back to Caspian. Nodding to herself, she went after her parka.

Caspian didn't look up when Wendy came out onto the porch. The ice-laden wind was currently out of the southwest, so they were in the lee of the worst of it, but the air was bitter cold nonetheless. Wendy kept her paws in her pockets as she walked over next to him.

She cleared her throat and said, "Tough day."

"Yeah." He didn't look up.

That low, monosyllabic response didn't give her much to work with. "It's lucky you happened by the wreck when you did. It's a sure thing nobody else would've."

"Lucky. Right."

She reached over and brushed some snow off his shoulder, then rested her paw there. "Hey. You're not blaming yourself for anything are you?"

He looked up at that.

"I only ask because I've been there myself. It took me a long time, but I finally realized that I'm not responsible for freak accidents or genetic problems or everyone else's stupidity."

"And you're telling me this because … ?"

She held up both paws. "I just figure now if I can save somebody else a little wasted time kicking himself in the ass, well … it's worth the effort."

He sighed deeply, stood up, shook off the rest of the snow that had stuck to his fur, and stretched. "That's not it, ma'am."

"Wendy!"

"What?"

"It's 'Wendy', not 'ma'am'. I'm more comfortable without the formality."

"Okay, Wendy it is. But I'm not blaming myself for anything. All you can do is all you can do, and leave the outcome in God's paws. So I don't worry about it, from that angle at least."

_Oh, for cryin' out loud! Another religious nut!_

He continued, "But what you said about other furs' stupidity reminds me of something I heard once. Think it was Einstein. Said that as far as he knew there were only two things that had no limits: the size of the universe, and furkind's stupidity. And he wasn't all that sure about the universe."

"Ah-huh. Sounds about right."

"And I have to keep reminding myself that I can't save the world single-pawed. Nobody can. But something like this happens," here he gestured toward the corner of the big house. "… and you just gotta wonder. 'Bout some furs, I mean."

"They may have had a legitimate excuse for being there."

"Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. We'll probably never know."

She popped his arm lightly with the back of her paw. "As they say around here, you done good. Don't sweat it. We'll take care of her, and we'll find out who she belongs to." She bit one lip for a moment and shook a finger at him. "Tell you what. We'll go inside right now and report the accident to the sheriff. Get that off your chest. He's a stand-up guy. He'll do the right thing, even if it does take him a while. So don't worry."

He gave her a half-hearted grin. "You must be a counselor in your day job."

"Honey, _this_ …" and with an expansive gesture she took in the house and surroundings, " … this is my day job. And trust me, it's a helluva job."

"That I can believe." He reached down and picked up his pack, then indicated the door. "After you."

##


	31. Chapter 4 Incidents & Accidents Part F

**_Chapter Four – Incidents and Accidents, Hints and Allegations – Part F_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Friday 02 December 2016, 3:20pm **_

When Cinnamon and Emily first moved in with the Evanses, Lee had installed them in the guest bedroom. They had a queen-sized bed to share, and elbow room shouldn't have been a problem, but it quickly became apparent that Emily was unsatisfied with the setup. She'd had a spacious room at home in Vermont, and full run of the huge old barn where Cinnamon worked, and though it would be a while before she could do much actual running, she missed it. She wanted her own space, so Debbye rearranged her craft-and-hobby room to accommodate the little girl. Cinnamon bought her a daybed, a frilly purple and white thing that had brought squeals of delight from her daughter. Since George and Linda thoroughly enjoyed spending time with their semi-invalid houseguest, it quickly became the center of activity in the house.

Still drying her headfur after her shower, Debbye stopped in the doorway to her erstwhile hobby room and said, "Hey, Cinnamon?"

The red squirrel looked up from where she was sprawled on the daybed, reading to the three little ones. "Yeah?"

"Any calls while I was wet?"

"Nope. Oven timer dinged though. I think your bread's ready to punch down."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks." She leaned against the doorframe and sighed, letting the towel drop to her side.

Cinnamon's brows drew together the tiniest bit. "You still feelin' under the weather?"

Debbye shook her head. "Just tired is all. I haven't really been sleeping that well."

"Uh-huh." The doubt was plain in Cinnamon's voice. "But it bugged you enough that you went to see the doctor couple days ago."

"And I'll thank you not to noise that abroad. Lee's got a lot on his mind, and doesn't need to be worrying about me. I'll be fine."

Emily tugged on her mother's shirt. "Mommy! Wead da book!"

She glanced down at her daughter and said, "Okay, sweetie." Then to Debbye she said, "You heard anything back from her yet?"

"No. I think I'll call the office after I get dressed."

Cinnamon nodded and resumed the story.

##

_** 7:45pm **_

Lee finished tucking in George and Linda, and then made his rounds through the house, checking the locks, arming the security system, making sure everything was turned off that needed to be turned off, and assuring himself that Cinnamon and Emily were in their rooms for the night. He padded silently down the hall to the bedroom he shared with the love of his life.

Debbye was sitting at her vanity, brushing out her headfur, and gave him a coy glance when he came in. He caught the subtle signal, noted the slinky chemise she had donned, and grinned a little as he locked their door. He strode over to her chair, leaned down, and gave the tip of one ear a quick nibble, catching the hint of her perfume at the same time. She put down her brush, stood and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly.

His smile broadened as he said, "All this just for me? I'm flattered."

"Well. It's not _exactly_ all for you."

That brought a raised eyebrow. "Oh?"

She nodded. "We're celebrating."

"Is that right?"

"Yup." And she snuggled closer.

"So what's the occasion?"

For an answer she pulled away and walked to her armoire, opening the door and letting it swing wide. Hanging from one of the hooks at the top of the door was the blue dress she had worn to Michael Truefoot's party. It had been damaged beyond repair, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to get rid of it, and now she was glad she'd hung onto it.

Lee obviously didn't make the connection, and gave her a quizzical look.

She giggled briefly. "Honey, do you remember what happened when we made love after I wore this dress to that dance at corporate headquarters?"

Lee's brow furrowed in thought. "Corporate … dance …" The light went on, and he started visibly. "I know what happened! George and Linda happened!"

She gave him a half-lidded smile. "Mm-hmm!"

"And we made love that night, after … well, after what happened at Michael's."

"Yep. We did." She sashayed slowly in his direction.

"You're pregnant?"

"I'm pregnant."

"Oh, Honey!" In two strides he caught her and swept her off the floor, swinging her around and covering her face with kisses. "That's wonderful!"

She giggled again. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"How long have you known?"

"Just since this afternoon. I went to the doctor on Wednesday because I half-suspected what might be going on, and they got the results today."

"And are you sure that …" He paused and thought back over their activities of the last month or so. "Yes. It would have to be. How far along are you?"

"She says six weeks, but I know it had to be that night."

"That's not too far off six weeks, really." He put her back on her own feet, but did not let go of her. "I love you so much!"

She laid her head on his chest, practically purring herself.

They stood together for nearly half a minute, basking in each other's glow. Lee had a thought, smiled to himself, and raised her face so he could look into her eyes. "How about this: Michael if it's a boy. Michelle if it's a girl."

Debbye had to sniff away a few tears. She didn't trust her trembling lip to answer at first, only nodding. At length she breathed, "That's perfect," and pulled his face down to hers and kissed him thoroughly. Then she began unbuttoning his shirt.

##

**Misunderstanding is the most common  
form of communication between people.**

_**- Peter Benary**_

##

_** Saturday 17 December 2016, 1:00pm **_

It had been a bad morning for Wendy. The previous two weeks hadn't been anyfur's idea of a picnic either.

The blizzard that introduced itself at the beginning of the month decided it liked the area and hung around for a few days. The record-shattering snowfall it left behind, and the bitterly cold temperatures that followed, had tossed most furs' schedules out the proverbial window, and the vixen had had enough of delays and missed deadlines and cancellations to last her for two or three lifetimes. And each and every tiny change in the menu required – _required!_ – Ginger Piercer's study and input and approval. Some of the more critical shortfalls forced her to drive herself to Boston once and to Montreal twice to get certain items that either were stuck somewhere in transit limbo, or had spoiled before they arrived, or hadn't even been put on a truck in the first place. Never mind the fact that each trip took two or three days of hard, dangerous driving; the gas bill alone was making a serious dent in what would have been a slim margin of profit, even if everything went off without a hitch. The troubles associated with this party had Wendy about ready to tear out her headfur.

Then there was the brief report she'd gotten last Wednesday from the deputy who looked into her complaint about Yates Law Firm. They'd found out that Mr. Yates evidently was indeed out of the country, but were not sure where. However, several other former clients had filed grievances of one type or another against him, and they were continuing the investigation. Meanwhile, the law office was closed and all current business suspended until further notice. He didn't know anything about her stipend payments, and wasn't at liberty to discuss any of the files they had recovered, and that was all he could say. The conversation had left her more than a little depressed.

One thing that had helped to keep her sanity approximately intact was Karl's punctuality for his Tuesday night meals these last two weeks. Regardless of how deep the snow got, she could count on his smiling face showing up between six-thirty and seven. He did a yeoman's job of listening to her troubles, her worries … and her diatribes concerning both. Nodding in sympathy and interspersing the conversation with encouragement and helpful comments, he provided three straight hours of non-judgmental respite for her battered psyche. She found herself getting geared up in anticipation of his visits as much as a full day in advance.

The other recent bright spot was that Caspian had come back through the area three days ago and stopped in to see her. He sized up the situation on the spot and pitched in to help, waving off her (admittedly mild) protestations with a careless paw. Having his unflagging strength around was a real godsend. He'd been able to cart everything in from the van this morning in one trip. Of course, he had to ride over with Patty, in the bed of her pickup, but he didn't mind at all, wind-chill notwithstanding. However, on their way to the Piercers' house, a patch of black ice (obviously bored with the general lack of traffic, and eager for excitement) had sent Wendy spinning off the road and had spilled one of the aspics onto the floor of the van. The circumstances of this accident had the usual complete lack of effect on Ms. Piercer: "You must replace the dish. It is imperative that all elements of the dinner be present." So Wendy pulled yet another miracle out of her increasingly ragged hat. The aspic was done, and chilling in the refrigerator.

The Piercers had a kitchen to die for. The layout was designed with serious cooking in mind, and from the granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances to the ceramic-composite utensils and "frictionless" cookware everything was absolutely top-notch. Nevertheless Wendy approached the job with distaste and no little trepidation. Ginger had a near-maniacal attitude about having her possessions in a particular order. Every item, every cabinet, every decanter and rack and holding device fell into a groups-of-three pattern, and woe betide anyfur who messed with her arrangement. She had embossed every cabinet and shelf with tiny stenciled instructions on what was supposed to sit where; each color-coded container was marked with acceptable hi and low levels for its contents. Everything from the kitchen – and I do mean _everything_ – that Wendy might use during the preparation of the meal had to be recorded on the excruciatingly detailed charts that Ginger graciously provided. Consequently, the vixen decided from the outset to use only her own supplies.

The whole situation put Patty off her feed. She stuck close to Wendy and did what she was told. Otherwise, she kept her paws strictly to herself, and the two of them went about methodically setting up the dinner in the various parlors and dining rooms in the Piercers' rambling house.

##

_** 9:30pm **_

All of the guests seemed to be familiar with their hostess' slavish devotion to routine, and truth to tell, some of them looked on the whole affair as a grand joke. They were careful not to let her in on it, though. The conversation at table stayed light and innocuous, especially if Ginger happened to be nearby.

Wendy was of two minds about the party.

On the one paw, the food was a hit, from the main course down to the last hors d'oeuvre. Some of the guests raved so much that Wendy was in danger of getting her head stuck in a doorway.

On the other, some of the guests …well, it may be said that they didn't make her job any easier. Patty had informed her weeks earlier that only the lightest flakes of the upper crust of New England society were invited to "Miz Ginger's Christmas bash". And as far as Wendy was concerned, "flakes" was an apt description. For example, there was a small "extracurricular" party convening in the pool house that had a lot less to do with social mingling and a lot more to do with cocaine. Also, three elderly gents got into a shouting match in the foyer over the details of the precise location of the grave of an obscure fifteenth-century French poet, and nearly came to blows before their wives separated them. Shortly thereafter, Patty had taken a shortcut through the enormous greenhouse garden on her way from the kitchen to the great room, and nearly tripped over a threesome of minks sprawled out beside the koi pond, naked as the day they were born. They'd invited her to join them, but she stuttered her apologies and beat a hasty retreat. And to make it a truly memorable evening for Wendy, one guest, a tall and hefty fox in his late thirties by the name of Bertrand Alopecus, kept hitting on her. He was dopey drunk and couldn't seem to translate thought into a cogent statement, but somehow he managed to retain enough motor control to grab her backside anytime he got within range. The vixen took to standing behind things or against walls in self-defense.

Ms. Piercer had a circuit that she followed on a strict twenty-five minute schedule that took her through the various rooms that had been designated for the party. She began her rounds at six-fifteen sharp, and did not deviate either from the order or the amount of time she spent in each room. At one point Wendy observed with some surprise as the mouse stopped a conversation in mid-sentence, turned her back on the canine couple she'd been talking to, and marched out of the room. The guests took it in stride. Indeed, they seemed almost dismissive of her behavior, and carried on as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But so far Wendy had survived, and now she and Patty stood side by side at the dessert cart, organizing the plates of cake and mousse and cinnamon-honey-glazed fruit.

Wendy regarded the display with a slight frown. Something was missing …

Patty piped up, "You want me to go get the truffles?"

The vixen snapped her fingers. "That's it! Yes, please. They're in the sideboard cooling rack." And Patty hurried off.

Twelve seconds later she caught a whiff of gin-laden breath, and a groping paw found its way to the top of her tail. The fox's bleary eyes attempted to focus on her as he said, "Hey dere, shug-_hic_ … hon-_hic_ … shweet-_hic_ … darli-_hic_ … baby!" He coughed, spraying Wendy with a light coating of essence-of-distillery. "Howshabou' a li'l kissh?"

She jerked and backed away quickly but bumped into the wall at the second step. Bertrand, deprived of the slight support he'd had, however briefly, by leaning on her, stumbled forward and sandwiched her against the wall. He seemed instantly delighted by this state of affairs.

"Mr. Alopecus, will you _please_ …" She suddenly had her paws full keeping his away from her person, caught her breath, and continued, "… _please_ keep your _distance!_"

"Aww, don' be-_hic_ … don' be thattaway." He pressed his size advantage, pinning her.

Preoccupied as she was, she failed to notice a slight figure that had slipped down the hall in their direction, following Mr. Alopecus. Anyway, the fox was between Wendy and the wide, arched doorway, effectively blocking her view.

Wendy had managed to corral a wrist in each paw, but without any mechanical advantage, and not wishing to actually damage this idiot, she couldn't see an easy way out. She'd learned earlier that he was some sort of muckety-muck on staff with the legal arm of the State Department, so causing him the bodily harm she so ardently wished upon him was out of the question. And he kept insisting, "Jush a li'l kissh, jush a li'l 'n."

"You'll excuse me … _mff_ … if I don't … _ehn_ … believe you, sir!" Despite his protestations, she managed to lever his arms back around behind him, but the net effect of that tactic was that she was now embracing him. At least, she figured, he couldn't grope her in that position.

He gave her a sloppy grin, and then a sloppier lick-kiss on the side of her face, almost making her gag. His breath absolutely reeked. She didn't even want to contemplate his blood-alcohol level. He giggled like a little girl and said, "Aww, y'do re-huhlly li-_hic_ … like me. Thash sho shwee'."

Down the hall, the first figure was joined by a second, taller one. Both of them watched as the tableau unfolded.

"Mr. Alopecus, I'm going to turn you around now, and you are going to walk away. Right? You get what I'm saying?"

"Y'r sho shwee'."

"No, sir, I am not. Believe me."

"I jush nee' a li'l kissh an' it'll be all better."

_Ye gads, but I hate it when a guy can't hold his liquor!_ "What you need is to go back to the party and find a nice corner to go to sleep in. There are plenty of spots that would suit you for that purpose." And she muttered under her breath, "A heating duct, for example." With more than a few false starts and minor gropes, she maneuvered him out from behind the dessert cart – without damaging any of the dishes! – and got him turned around and headed in the right direction. It was during this period that the smaller of the two watching figures turned away and stomped off back up the hall, arms stiffly at her sides. The larger one soon followed.

"I'll jussh go an' frennish … go an' sheffern … _hic_ … go freshen up m' drink. Then we c'n have a li'l dansh, okay baby?"

"No, sir. Not okay. You are going to go sleep it off somewhere before you hurt yourself." _Or before I lose my temper!_

He waved a languid paw and twiddled his fingers at her. "I'll go gish you a li'l drink, too, baby. Choodle-oo!"

She gritted her teeth as she watched him meander off. Patty came back just then and took in the situation at a glance. Muzzle twisting in distaste, she asked, "That jerk found you again, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. And State Department or no State Department, if he grabs my boob one more time I'm gonna rip off his head and spit down the hole!"

##

_** 10:10pm **_

"Ahem."

Ginger Piercer did not notice the first attempt at gaining her attention, so the elderly fox tried again. "Ahem! Madam Piercer?"

She turned and looked up him. "Senator Todd, I am fully occupied at present. If you will do me the favor of waiting in the next room, I will accommodate your conversational needs at that time."

His manner was stiffly formal, but insistent. "Madam, I am afraid this cannot wait."

Few things irritated Ginger more than having her routine disrupted. But she did understand – to a limited extent – the value of being a gracious hostess, so she excused herself from the small group and walked away with the fox. He led her to a corner behind a large planter and said, "I'm sorry to tell you that your hired help is getting entirely too familiar with your guests."

"What, what?" That statement tossed a large, unwieldy monkey-wrench into her thought processes. "What, what?"

"Your catering waitstaff, Madam. One of them has been forcing herself on my son-in-law, Bertrand, much to Renee's chagrin."

Ginger stared unblinking at him for nearly ten seconds the unexpected data processed, and then asked, "Where? Here at my party?"

"Yes, Madam. I felt it my duty to relay it to you."

"But that sort of behavior is strictly forbidden in our contract! Who told you of this infraction?"

"No one, Madam. I observed her advances myself."

"Which one of them did this?"

"I do not know her name, but she is a vixen. Quite lovely, in fact, but that hardly excuses this sort of …"

"That will be Ms. Wylde. I will have her escorted from the premises immediately."

"Madam, you needn't make a fuss on my account. Bertrand had too much to drink, as he sometimes does. I'm sure that's what made him susceptible to her charms in the first place. But he and Renee are in our limousine now, he's fallen asleep, and we will be going."

The mouse paused and considered this information. "Very well. This is an annoyance, but not insurmountable. Do you know whether she had such interaction with any of the other guests?"

"I do not, Madam. But I hadn't given it any thought until I saw that Renee was so upset. Then she showed me what was going on."

Ginger held out her paw. "I thank you for taking the time to help correct this problem."

He clasped her paw and shook it gravely. "You are quite welcome, Madam."

She frowned in thought, trying to remember what else she wanted to say, brightened slightly, and said, "Please convey my regards to your sister. It is unfortunate that she could not be here this evening."

"Thank you, I will. But being the First Lady means scheduling conflicts are sometimes unavoidable."

"Yes, I know that. I was merely making an observation."

"Of course, Madam. Have a pleasant evening."

##

_** 11:45pm **_

Caspian edged his armload in through the sliding door and set the boxes gently on the seat. "I think that's the last of 'em, Wendy."

"Thanks, Caspian." Wendy closed the door. "You've been a great deal more understanding about this fiasco than you have any right to be. To think she wouldn't even let you inside …"

He waved off the objection. "Tut-tut! No problem at all. It's very pleasant out here."

"Pleasant? At ten below?" She punched his arm lightly. "Weirdo."

"No, seriously. I had a beautiful stroll around the grounds. Did you know she has a topiary garden out behind the pool?"

"No, can't say as I did."

"Well it's there. Buncha wild, geometric things, too. Tripods and triangles and funny little things in rows of three."

"Ah-huh. Sounds like her kitchen."

He clapped his paws together and said, "Well, Patty's waiting on me, so I'll go hop in the truck."

"Hop gently. It's not a big truck."

"Ha-ha. You coming?"

"In a minute. I've gotta turn in the bill for this shindig."

"Okay, then. Don't be too long. Patty looked kinda tired."

"You think? I mean it's only a quarter of midnight, and she only put in a fourteen-hour day and …"

"And ha-ha to you! I'll go keep Patty company." And he trotted off.

Wendy canvassed the lower floor, but soon discovered that Ms. Piercer had gone upstairs to bed and would not be available for comment. She located the chief of staff instead, and presented him with her invoice for the party.

"Very good, Ms. Wylde. I shall pass this along to Madam at my earliest opportunity."

"Thanks!" _And please, please, please let her pay on time! This party has completely tapped me out!_ "I hope everyone enjoyed it."

"No doubt about that, Miss, if the comments I overheard were any indication."

She grinned a little and asked, "Did you get to try the food?"

"Indeed, I did. And may I say that your culinary skills are well-honed." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I fear I may have overdone it a bit with the hors d'oeuvres. That creamed-spinach puff was in particular very addictive."

Wendy rewarded him with a broad smile. "Glad you liked it." She dusted off her apron and said, "Well, gotta get going. What with the snow and the dark, I'll be lucky to make it home before morning."

"Then please do drive carefully, Miss."

"Wendy!"

"Yes. Sorry. Please drive carefully, Wendy." His own muzzle twitched away an answering grin as he watched her walk away.

He folded the invoice and slipped it into his coat pocket, then returned to overseeing the restoration of the mansion to its usual immaculate order. Much later, before retiring, he went up to the family wing and placed the invoice on the desk in Ginger's office.

##

_** Sunday 18 December 2016, 8:10am **_

Returning from her morning speed-walk around the greenhouse, Ginger stopped by her office to check her voice mails. She spied the invoice where it had been left the night before, and picked it up. Reading it through once, she frowned, folded it in half lengthwise, and fed it into the shredder beside her desk, muttering, "You must realize, Ms. Wylde, that I can not condone a breach of contract. You really should have known better."

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Here Ends Chapter 4 of Book 5.**

**Please feel free to comment on the story thus far.**

**Thank you.**


	32. Chapter 5 Only the Lonely Part A

**_Chapter Five – Only the Lonely – Part A_**

**##**

**Life may have no meaning.  
****Or even worse, it may have a meaning  
****of which I disapprove.**

_**- Ashleigh Brilliant**_

**##**

_** Monday 19 December 2016, 9:40am **_

Bundled in her parka, Wendy stood in the shade at the edge of the Inn's broad front porch, staring at the sky, disquiet and apprehension plain on her delicate features. At zenith the sky was the deep, clear blue of mid-winter, and although she couldn't see it from where she stood, the eastern horizon lightened to a bright gold around the sun. But in the west the lowering clouds piled up, billowing, roiling, shouldering each other out of the way. Though the bright morning light limned the tops of the solid-seeming masses in white and silver and pale coral, their flat, heavy bottoms were the very image of tarnished lead.

_Quiet … it's so quiet out here. Won't be later, though._

The vixen had never seen a storm front so well-defined; and a storm front is exactly what she knew it to be. It was no longer just the weather channels that covered the story of how the jet stream was dipping farther toward the equator than it ever had since meteorologists first started keeping track of such things. The frigid arctic air that normally dwelt on the plains of the Canadian Shield had followed the winds south, and already the upper Midwest was in the grip of record-breaking cold and snow. Now the leading edge of the fast-moving cell skimmed eastward over the Lakes, and would flow into Addison County before noon, when the already low temperatures would plummet.

_They're saying it's gonna be almost thirty below tonight, and that's without wind chill. That sounds more like the Yukon than Vermont. And I don't even have the power back on from the __last__ storm yet. Damn good thing I can heat and cook with propane._

Her gaze fell to the long, deep sweep of snow that stretched down from the front of the big house all the way to the tree line on the opposite side of the small valley. The only feature breaking that white expanse was the narrow, forlorn track that marked the driveway – and the previous afternoon's brief but intense squall had covered even that with enough of the white stuff to make it nearly invisible. Nor could she see any trace of the path Caspian had left when he strode out yesterday morning, plowing northward. Overnight winds had been busy.

'_s funny. Not a single sound. No traffic noise. No birds. Even the breeze is silent._

She'd already spent half an hour, idling in her van under the porte cochere, listening to the news channels in a vain hope that things would improve. Travel advisories this morning were unanimous in their recommendations that, barring emergencies, home was the place to be for at least the next few days. And truly, her harrowing experience driving back home after Saturday's party put her in total agreement with that estimation. It had been four hours of wide-eyed, teeth-gritting, heart-pumping slides and grinds and near-misses that she was in no hurry to repeat.

A small, disappointed huffing sound escaped as she turned and went back inside. If she had no plans to leave home, she certainly couldn't expect anyone else to brave the winter's worst. There would be no one stopping by today. No diners for the Café. No guests for the Inn. No one to break the numbing, sodden, relentless monotony.

She wandered out to the kitchen and put on a kettle to boil, got a packet of Earl Grey out of the cupboard, dropped it into a mug, and sat down to wait. She wished that today could be Tuesday. _Yeah, that would be good. Tuesday afternoon, and Karl showing up any minute now._ The corners of her muzzle twitched up a little at the thought. She could count on hours of diverting conversation with him around, always something new to discuss, always a lively debate, his quick wit keeping her smiling. He'd been her primary gazetteer for the county these last couple of weeks, now that she wasn't getting out to see Quinn nearly as often.

Some furs in her position might have gotten along well enough as long as they had power for web access, or to run a television … but Wendy wasn't like that. No, she was not quite part of the herd in that respect. Oh, sure, she'd done her share of surfing from time to time, and had contributed, sporadically, to a few message boards and chat rooms, but it never really pressed any buttons with her. It was too artificial, too removed from reality, and she'd not spent a significant amount of time on the internet in the last few years. The couple of instances where she'd been foolish enough to arrange any kind of face-to-face hookup via the web, the resulting dates had been complete, unrelieved disasters.

And as far as that goes, she never had been all that interested in watching television either, even as a girl. If a really good movie was available with deep characters and a riveting plot, she might sit still long enough to watch it, assuming she had someone interesting to watch it with. But she had a pretty basic disdain for the boob tube, and tended to agree with a Raymond Chandler **quote*** she'd read many years back about the uselessness of that activity – if such an inactive pastime could be called an activity. And nothing, in her mind, could redeem a weak script. The recent developments in holographic projection were all well and good, but a stupid program in three-D was still just a stupid program, and with the majority of media-land being taken up with political trash, porn, and the latest "reality" shows, pickings were slim. She had outfitted a couple of the guest suites with relatively new plasma sets, but her own apartment had none.

Of course the lack of electricity made all such cogitations moot. In any case, she wasn't thinking about any of that. Not in so many words.

The kettle started singing, so she got up and made her tea, and then carried it to the library, where she noticed the fire had reduced itself mostly to coals. Setting her mug down on an end table, she poked up the fire before stoking it with some kindling and a few more small logs. She went over to the wall console to set the sound system, but remembered as her paw touched the unit that the power was off, and cursed softly. Sighing, she scooted an end table away from the large sofa and repositioned it by the hearth, pulled a chair over next to it, and wrapped herself in a comforter, feet to the fire. That exercise got her memory going and made her nostalgic for Cheets and her crew. She could still picture the big 'taur lying in front of the flames on her lamb skin, sipping hot chocolate. _Now there's an idea for later; gotta replenish the cocoa levels in my blood._ But she only sat and stared into the fire, slowly drinking her tea.

She was still sitting there an hour and a half later, when the front arrived and the sleet began _tacketting_ against the windows.

##

_** Tuesday 20 December 2016, 7:20am **_

Though she had no compelling reason to rise early, Wendy nevertheless awoke before dawn. She squinted over at the backlit LCD of her alarm clock, then at the darkness outside, and frowned. The sun would be up any minute, she knew, and the gloom in her chamber seemed a lot deeper than it should have been.

She got up, shivering a little, and wrapped the counterpane around her before moving to the window. Using the side of her fist, she wiped a hole in the frost and peered through the glass, but it did little good. The gray opacity outside told her nothing … though she _could_ hear what sounded like more sleet. She sighed and went to the armoire for something to wear.

##

_** 1:10pm **_

"_So what's tonight's forecast for our listening area, Jan? Is that parka you're wearing a hint?"_

"_Oh, Dean, you got me! It looks like more of the same. That record-breaking cold wave isn't going away any time soon, and the northern New England states can expect another ten or fifteen centimeters of …"_

Wendy moved her thumb over the wheel control and flipped off the radio. She didn't need a bunch of talkinghead chatter to tell her what she already knew. Snow and sleet had been taking turns all day; she estimated the accumulation at around twenty centimeters so far, on top of the existing base of over a meter. She got out of the van, slamming the door a little harder than necessary before trudging back inside to stand over the heating grate until her feet warmed up. It occurred to her again to wonder how Karl had managed to get the heat to flow and the thermostat to do its thing without the need for electricity. He'd explained it once, shortly after the upgrade, but thermodynamics was not, to put it mildly, her strong suit. Not that she worried over it in any respect. At best her interest barely qualified as a velleity, and in these circumstances it didn't even rate that much effort. As long as the heat worked … great.

She wandered out to the kitchen and stared around the big room for several minutes, not really seeing any of it. _This is Tuesday … at least, I __think__ it's Tuesday. And if it is, I know Karl had planned to come out tonight. But I can't believe there's any way he would try to make it all the way out here in this weather. His ingenuity may not have any practical limits, but I'm sure his common sense and judgment would keep him inside._ She would have called him to check, just to be sure, but she had precious little juice left in her PA's battery, and with the main power out, that was her only lifeline to the outside world. It would have to be reserved for emergencies.

The evening's menu, taped to the door of the main refrigerator, caught her eye and she walked over to it and ran down the list again. If she really had any confidence at all that he might show up, she'd need to get started on it in less than an hour. But she _didn't_ have that confidence, so she decided not to worry about it. In the back of her mind she congratulated her uncle again on having the foresight to install refrigeration units that could run off of either electricity or propane. At least she didn't have to worry about everything spoiling.

She stepped slowly up to one of the eastern windows and looked out into the forest where drifts were piled in haphazard fashion as far as she could see … not that she could see very far. Even the close skirts of the evergreens were no match for the insistent wind. She sighed deeply and turned away.

As she walked aimlessly up the South Hall, her attention was arrested by a door to her right. It was ajar, and it led into one of the small dining rooms, but more importantly, that room held one of the two large liquor cabinets on the ground floor. Nodding slightly to herself, she pushed it open and went inside.

##

_** 5:50pm **_

For nearly a week the soft silence in the woods north of New Haven had been largely unbroken. Every creature that could hibernate was doing so, and the movements of the few that were active were effectively hushed in the deep snow. So with no background noise to mask it, the steady _whissh-whissh-whissh _of Karl's skis would have been audible for upwards of a hundred meters … had there been anyone around to hear it.

He liked to think of this sort of weather as "crisp". It had always made him feel invigorated, renewed, more alive, and when he could he took advantage of all it offered. He was a sub-arctic species anyway, and, especially since his Augmentation, the cold never bothered him. But then neither, anymore, did extremes of heat. His body had several ways to maintain the correct core temperature, and they were all spliced into his autonomic system. Still, he preferred clear skies under which to enjoy the snow. Blizzards weren't his favorite thing, not by a long shot, since all that frozen precipitation tended to interfere with his sensory input.

This one wasn't too bad, though. True, the snow hadn't let up completely, but now it was less like a main course, and more like a garnish. He could deal.

He spotted the Inn through the network of bare limbs before he got to the meadow, noting the thin stream of smoke coming from the center of the southernmost row of chimneys. The probable source then would be the library fireplace, unless Wendy had something going in one of the un-refurbished guest rooms, but he knew that all the rooms she had fixed up for visitors were on the north side of the Main Hall, so that seemed unlikely. As he passed the utility pole at the edge of the trees he marked that the main transformer was both silent and cold, which meant that the Inn had no electrical power. That wasn't much of a surprise; most of the county was in the same fix. But he also knew that would not be an impediment to food preparation. Turning at the drive, he zipped up the center of the long yard, then changed his mind and scooted around to the south end and the porte cochere. That way was closer to the kitchen.

He was just slipping out of the wrappings that held the skis to his feet when it hit him: there were no smells of cooking. He Augmented his olfactory system and took another breath: nothing. He could detect nothing whatsoever to indicate any meals-in-progress. Turning the rest of his senses up to the maximum, he gently placed the tips of all eight digits against the side of the Inn and concentrated.

No one walking around. No muted conversations. No sounds at all.

He knew she should be inside. Her van was parked right there, and the telltale remnants of her footprints and her personal musk told him that she had come out and gotten in it at least three times in the last twenty-four hours. No other tracks marred the fresh snow, no other scents lingered. Perhaps she was asleep? He didn't know whether or not she snored, but considering her excellent physical condition, he'd wager she didn't. Pensive, he slipped the bulky pack off his back and leaned it against the steps. _You never know. I might need the extra mobility._ He tried the doorknob, and, finding it unlocked, stepped into the receiving area. It was relatively warm inside, but he knew it would be: he'd noticed the low-level infrared coming from the windows. He sniffed again, testing the air for the scent of blood, but that was absent as well.

Soundlessly he glided down the hall toward the kitchen. It was, as he had predicted, empty and dark. He made a quick circuit of the Rear Hall and Main Hall, checking in her office and finding it deserted. Her scent permeated the house, as was to be expected, but he was confident he could pinpoint her anyway. He went to the center of the long, vaulted space and stood still, allowing the normal eddies and currents to settle, and in not too many seconds he turned and went to a door on the south side of the Hall.

Placing an ear against the thick wood, he immediately picked up the sound of her breathing. He opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was nearly lightless, an unavoidable consequence of its location. The Main Hall could be a bit dim unless the chandeliers were on, and with no electricity there was precious little light to filter in, but that posed no difficulty for Karl. Wendy lay sprawled on a divan against the east wall, four empty bottles standing in a sentinel line in front of it. The smell of brown liquor hung strong in the room.

Leaving the door open, Karl went over to the divan and knelt beside the unconscious vixen. He checked her pulse and temperature, found both within acceptable limits, and then dropped out of Augment. He smoothed a couple of locks of headfur out of her face and spoke her name softly. It took him a few tries, but eventually she opened her eyes a crack and looked up at the wolverine. Actually focusing seemed beyond her abilities at the moment, though.

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

"… hmnml hn zhu mshnh …"

He grinned a little. "That's easy for you to say."

"Wuzzut?"

"Can you sit up?"

With his aid she did so. He steadied her next to the wall and let her get her bearings. She looked back up at him and blinked a few times, then said, "Karl?"

"None other."

" … Karl?"

"Yes. It _is_ Tuesday, you know."

" … Karl?"

"I'm pleased that you've retained your keen faculties of observation."

She shook her head, but then her eyes bugged out and she flopped over against him. "Whoa. Bad. Bad idea."

"Looks like you've had yourself quite a little party here, milady."

She slowly swung her head around to face him again. " … Karl?"

A wry chuckle escaped. "Yes. Karl. That's me. I'll write it down if you like."

"Wha'r ya doin' 'ere?"

"My original intention had been to pay tribute to your skill in the culinary arts, but I think the goal at the moment should be getting you sober."

"Bu' … bu' … wha'r ya _doin'_ here?"

He sighed, and said, "Making coffee, apparently. For the next little while. Upsy-daisy!" And he picked her up and carried her gently back to the kitchen.

She protested weakly, "I'sh no' fair, y'know. Y'arn s'pose be here. I's snowin' an' stuff."

"My dear girl, if you think a little bad weather can keep me apart from you, you obviously haven't been paying attention. Neither sleet nor snow nor dark of night, et cetera."

"But howja get here? I's snowin'. I's been snowin' an' snowin' an' snowin' an' … "

"On foot, silly woman. On skis, to be precise."

She didn't say anything to that, but snuggled her face into his chest. When they got to the kitchen, she didn't want him to put her down. "Seats 'r cold." She poked at his chest with one finger. "Freeze m' li'l tushie."

He set her down anyway. "Oh, you'll warm up soon enough, once I get you on the outside of some coffee." He looked around at the array of cabinets, then turned back to her with half a grin. "Assuming you can point out where you keep it, that is."

She pointed. He got the necessary items, and set about brewing up a pot.

##

_* Here's that quote from Raymond Chandler:_

_"Television's perfect. You turn a few knobs,  
a few of those mechanical adjustments  
at which the higher apes are so proficient,  
and lean back and drain your mind of all thought.  
And there you are watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze.  
You don't have to concentrate. You don't have to react.  
__You don't have to remember.  
__You don't miss your brain because you don't need it.  
__Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally.  
__Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. __You are in the man's nirvana.  
__And if some poor nasty minded person comes along and says  
__you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind.  
__He probably hasn't got the price of a television set."_


	33. Chapter 5 Only the Lonely Part B

**_Chapter Five – Only the Lonely – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Tuesday 20 December 2016, 7:10pm **_

Really, it didn't take all that long to bring the vixen back to a semblance of sobriety, but she was heartily embarrassed well before she got there. He waved away her apologies as unnecessary, and they worked side by side to put together a quick but filling supper. And though it was much simpler fare than what she'd had planned originally, Karl didn't seem to mind a bit.

Afterwards, she threw together some hot mulled cider, and they repaired to the library to visit. Karl allowed as how he wasn't in any hurry to leave, which suited the vixen thoroughly, and she appeared predisposed to talk, which suited him right back. Sitting at either end of the long couch, they chatted around several subjects for a while, and at length Wendy began to tell him about her business woes. Once she got going it didn't take much to pull the story out of her. The longer Karl listened, the more concerned he grew.

She said, "So as far as I know, the money's still there. I hope it is. But they still don't have any idea where that Yates character went."

"That whole situation stinks to high Heaven. I'll bet you lunch that 'Yates character' is a crook."

"Yeah. As Cinnamon would say, you're preaching to the choir."

"I'll see if I can dig up anything about him when I get back."

"Really? That'd be great if you could find him." She cocked her head to one side, studying the big fur. "I bet you can, too. I suppose that's _another_ thing you're good at?"

"Eh?"

"Oh, you know. Like the fire-dousing stuff, and that stereo system, and that well-fixing thingamajig you built." She thought of something and snapped her fingers. "And karate! Or whatever. Mac told me I could ask you about that."

A mask of reserve slid down and locked over Karl's face. "Did he, now?"

"Uh-huh. I'd mentioned about needing a sparring partner, and he suggested you."

"How generous of him." _I must remember to speak to him myself on that account._

She remembered another point. "Oh, yeah! When I was talking to Conner one time, he said something about you being the most dangerous fur he'd ever run into."

"Conner has a big yap."

She wrinkled her nose. "Yeah, well. Conner has a _lot_ of problems, but let's not get into _that_ subject."

"Huh?"

"Huh, what?"

"What do you mean that Conner has a lot of problems?"

"Umm. I'd … rather not talk about that, if it's okay with you."

"Did he _hurt_ you?"

Wendy took one look at the gathering tempest in Karl's face and held up both paws in alarm. "No! Nothing like that! He always treated me great, personally. We just had some … differences. About a … well, about a prejudice he has."

"Oh." That revelation didn't fit with his impression of the hunting guide. "Really? Prejudice? I wouldn't have thought that of him, considering his role in that whole Purist business."

"Yeah. He's got a …" She grasped for the right words, deciding quickly to take the high road. "… well, you might say he's got some blind spots. And I couldn't take it. So we split."

Karl suppressed the slight frisson of shocked delight that raced down his back. "Split? So you two aren't an item any more?"

"Nah. Just chalk it up as another fling, I guess." She stared into the fire for the space of several breaths, and then said, "Can we talk about something else? My love life's been a depressing topic here lately."

"Okay." Karl's internal ruminations on this _(Wonderful! Marvelous!)_ news were quickly approaching escape velocity. Fortunately, he had a ready suggestion. "I know you've not been getting out much lately, and most of your time for the last few weeks was taken up in prepping for that huge, blowout party."

"Boy, you got that right."

"You haven't really had a chance to decompress yet, have you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, judging by the condition you were in when I found you, I'd say you were still feeling some stress."

"Hmh." She considered that statement for a bit, and then nodded agreement.

"Maybe we could talk out some of the issues behind that. Bring a little closure."

She set her mug down and leaned forward. "I'll tell you what the _real_ issue is. I'm going stir crazy. If it weren't for that _stupid_ clause in that _stupid_ will and my _stupid_ decision to see this through, I'd mothball the goddam place and head for California until the spring thaw. That's how I'm holding up."

_Whoa! Raw nerve warning!_ "Ah. Well. I didn't know it had gotten that bad. Is it just being by yourself that you have trouble with? Because, you know, you've got friends around here. You don't have to spend _all_ your time rattling around in this cavernous old pile."

"Do I?" She leaned back against the cushion and steepled her fingers. "Do I really? Okay, besides you, name them."

"_Me?_ … um …" He caught his breath and his reason and said, "Well, okay, there's Quinn …"

"Who lives above his store and doesn't have room for anyone else to stay and gets reeeal crotchety about an awful lot of little things. He's a nice guy, and I can sit by his stove for a while, but that's about all."

"… Yyyyeah. That's true." He thought for a second and said, "Cinnamon certainly considers you a friend. I'm sure she'd be happy to …"

"Cinnamon is still in another state, as far as I know."

"… Hum. Yes. So she is. She's staying with the Evanses." He brightened. "Hey! You and Ellen Vison seem pretty close. And she's just up the road in Vergennes."

Wendy didn't say anything to that. She dropped her paws into her lap and stared at Karl for what he thought was rather a long time, until he began to wonder what it was he'd said to spook her. When she finally blinked it started a tear going down each side of her muzzle.

"Wendy?" Concern now plain in his voice, he moved over next to her. "Wendy, are you … are you all right?"

She sniffed and wiped a paw across her eyes, shook her head and leaned over into his chest, gripping his shirt tightly in one paw. He discovered that his arms had found their way around her, so he held her, not knowing what else to do, and her weeping gradually increased to regular, sustained sobs. He lifted her and settled her onto his lap where she curled up into a knot. Then he began stroking her headfur very gently, and they held that tableau for the better part of half an hour. He thought it best to let her work it out of her system, and as far as he was concerned she could take all the time she needed. Holding her this way wasn't exactly drudgery in his book.

At length the flow tapered off, she regained a measure of control, took a couple of deep breaths and mumbled, "I'm sorry."

" 's okay. That's why you have friends."

"You don't need this, though. Didn't mean to dump on you." She lay back against him again and whooshed a long sigh. "_Damn_ if that didn't feel good, though."

"Hey, listen, anytime you need to talk, just call me 'Mr. Ears'. You've got my number, I know."

"Yeah." _sniff_ "About that." She fished around on the table behind her and grabbed a tissue. When she finished with her nose, she crumpled the paper into a ball and held it in a fist. "See, it's not just the stipend. Oh that's something else, too, just one more straw on the ol' camel for sure. But I've had a god-awful pile of expenses these last couple of months. I'm stretched a little thin." She wiped at her nose again. "A lot thin, really." _sniff_ "More like transparent. With the power being out so much because of the storms, I haven't been able to keep my PA charged anyway, and so I … I didn't send in my last payment." Her shoulders quivered briefly. "It didn't seem like it mattered because I … I didn't … didn't have the bucks … for the comm bill. The thirty-first is the last day I'll have satellite access." _sniff_ "After that the only number that'll go through – on my PA _or_ the landline – is 911." She groped for another tissue, and Karl reached over and got the box for her. She blew her nose and cleaned her face up a bit. He waited for her to speak.

"But, see, Ellen was … she was … see, we were …" She was grasping for words that would make him understand. "Okay, you're right. We're close. We _were_ close, anyhow. And she's terrific, she really is, but she went to Mexico with her aunt and met this guy and he came back with her and they're getting married and … and …" She looked up and met his eyes, and the pain there surprised and puzzled him. "Since then I … we haven't really … spoken. At all."

"Uh …" The big fur was truly confused. "So, what, she's so caught up in this new love of hers that she's completely ignoring her friends? She must really be smitten."

Wendy did _**not**_ feel like getting into a discussion about her egalitarian approach to sexuality just now, certainly not with Karl. She had a gut instinct that told her he wouldn't sympathize with her position. She waffled for a moment, then sighed and said, "Yeah. That's one theory I guess."

"That's a shame."

"Yeah. Shame."

Karl could clearly sense that he wasn't getting the whole story, not by a damn sight, but he could also sense that she didn't need any more pressure. So he let it drop.

She didn't give him a chance to interject anything. "And that just about exhausts my stock of friends around here. I _know_ a lot of people, but acquaintances are not the same as friends."

"I'll concede that point."

"Thanks," she responded dryly. "I'd go back to Pennsylvania for the holidays, or maybe to New York City, if I could get out of here. But the last I heard there wasn't an airport open within two hundred klicks, and I certainly can't drive there. Not in this mess."

"It may not be as bad as you're making it out to be. The travel situation, I mean."

"How's that?"

"I heard the Federal guys are sending a bunch of extra snow plows up this way. Homeland Security stuff. Something about maintaining access in case of terrorism."

"Out _here?_ Why the hell would the Feds care about this area?"

"I think that business with the Knights made them a little gun-shy. Whatever the reason, they aim to have all the major roads in the affected states clear by Christmas Eve."

"Like that'll happen. And meanwhile we're stuck here."

"Well." He hesitated, and spoke as gently as he could. "I'm here. And I'm a friend."

She met his gaze and offered a tiny, tentative smile. "Yeah, you are, aren't you? And I've got a helluva way of showing my gratitude." She reached up and slowly ran a finger from his temple down to just under his chin. "Shame on me."

Her touch sent any number of neural pathways careening wildly out of synch, but he maintained outward control. His performance then could have cinched an Oscar. With a perfect and almost careless nonchalance, he said, "Oh, don't worry about it. Fair-weather friends are no friends at all." He patted her shoulder. "You know what they say. A _friend_ will help a body move. A _real_ friend will help you move a body."

She giggled in spite of herself, and Karl's soul warmed itself in the glow of her mirth.

She gave him a quick hug. "You really are a great guy. And here I go taking you for granted again. Shame on me twice."

"So what else is on your mind, _m'infant_?"

"You've got a big lap."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, hey, you're a big fella, you know. Sitting on your lap like this brings back memories of when I was a kit, sitting on my father's lap."

"That's an interesting segue."

"Yeah, well. Less painful that way. The past is a lot more fun than the present." She held a finger up to his muzzle to stifle the protest. "Not this exact _piece_ of the present. The recent-past present. And don't tell me you didn't know that."

"Yezz, ma'am, Miz Wendy."

"Oh, stuff it."

"By all means." He grinned again. "You want I should sing you a lullaby? Got any favorites?"

"Don't push it, Bub." That statement turned immediately into a wide yawn. "Geez. Sorry 'bout that."

"Don't nod off on me now."

"I'll see what I can do, but no promises."

"Musta had a late night last night."

"Not especially. But I woke up kinda early."

"Force of habit?"

"Humph." She executed a small shrug. "Maybe."

"Any bad dreams?"

She gave him a funny look. "Bad dreams? You mean nightmares?"

"Eh. Anything that bothers you."

"Hm." She paused for a moment, then shrugged again. "Not recently. Actually, I did have some bad ones a while back. Some really awful ones. But not for a while now. They just stopped. Why do you ask?"

_So that part of Nicu's story is true as well. Interesting._ "Well … it's just that you've got that 'didn't get enough sleep' look about you. I wondered." He thought of something and grinned. "Heh. Of course socking down four bottles of 80-proof couldn't possibly have anything to do with it."

"I'll have you know it was just barely three. Two of those bottles had already been opened."

"Still. Keep that up and you'll pickle your liver."

"Preservatives, my friend, the secret of a long and happy life. Besides, I don't indulge that often." _Not until lately._ "You shouldn't worry."

Karl gave her a look, but he let that one fly by unchallenged. He got up and refreshed the fire, polished off the mulled cider and inquired about more. Wendy suggested a little Irish coffee instead, so they ended up in the kitchen.

##

_** Wednesday 21 December 2016, 12:50am **_

Wendy tried unsuccessfully to stifle the third yawn in as many minutes.

"It's the wrong season for that, y'know."

She gave him a quizzical glance. "Wrong season for what?"

"Fly-catching."

She threw an oven mitt at him, which he snagged and tossed back. She wasn't quite so quick and it sailed past her head. In getting up to retrieve the mitt she noticed the clock on the wall and yelped.

He jerked forward. "Something wrong?"

"What the hell happened to the last two hours?"

"Oh." He relaxed again. "Heh. I imagine you found my scintillating conversational abilities so diverting you were completely unaware of the passage of time."

This being the first time in over an hour that she'd stood, she stretched prodigiously, then rubbed her eyes. "No wonder I'm so tired."

"Well, far be it from me to keep you from your beauty sleep. Not that you really need it." He rose and indicated the hallway. "I'll hoist my carcass on home so you …"

"No!"

The command in her voice stopped him. "What?"

She strode over quickly and placed a paw on his arm. "Karl … please stay."

His pulse jumped alarmingly, drowning out other sounds with its sudden pounding. Expressionless, he held her gaze for a long moment that kept getting longer. _Lead me not into temptation, for I can find it myself._ Finally he said, "Wendy … we've … we've been over this before."

She shook her head emphatically. "No. That isn't what I mean. You can have your own room if you like. I just …" She withdrew her paw and looked down. "I'd rather not be … alone … in this big ol' house … I don't know what it is about tonight but I just can't bear the thought of sleeping here alone." She half turned away and mumbled, "Bounce around in this place like a bee-bee in a boxcar."

He surprised her by pulling her into a light embrace. "No problem."

She returned the hug, looked up at him, and said simply, "Thanks."

"Just one condition."

"What's that?"

"I want the Fairy-Tale room."

"That's 'Suite.' "

He grinned. "I'm glad you think so. I do try to be."

"No, I mean …" Her voice trailed off, she released him, backed up a step, gave him a look of pained longsuffering, and punched him. "No puns for me, thanks."

"Ah. Perfectly understandable. It's late, and you're puns-drunk. I'll just …"

"AAAAAARRGHHHH!"

He hot-footed it out of the kitchen, cackling like a mad-fur, but she nailed him in the back with the oven mitt nonetheless.

##

_** 2:15am **_

She could remember nothing of the dream sequence that woke her, only that it left her cold and empty and shaken. It felt nothing like the horrors that had visited her in weeks past, but that was little consolation here, alone, in the darkness. She reached over quickly and flipped on the bedside light … which remained stubbornly unlit. Cursing softly, she rummaged through the drawer in the nightstand and came up with a flashlight, but its feeble beam did little to improve her spirits.

At that point her bladder gave her a gentle reminder of just how much she had drunk earlier, but after a short visit to the necessary room she still didn't _feel_ any better. She got a quilt and wrapped it around her shoulders, then sat in a rocker by the window and looked out over the snowfield. The last fringes of the front had passed through several hours earlier, and the high-pressure cell now in residence left the sky as clear as so much vacuum. Though the moon was only a waning quarter it was bright, as were the hundred thousand stars in the deep field overhead, and each was reflected many times from the fresh powder below. It was a beautiful, tranquil scene, worthy of a postcard or perhaps even a landscape in oils, and it should have cheered her. But looking at it left her more depressed instead. And although she was still exhausted, she _really_ didn't want to get back in bed … her bed, that is.

##

The door opened silently. Having hung it herself, she knew it would. She stood there in the dark rectangle for several minutes, her cotton nightgown hanging unmoving in the stillness, listening to his deep, even breathing before padding softly over next to the bed.

He slept on his side, facing the door, and was covered only by a sheet. The pillows were leaning against the side of the bed; he had an arm curled under his head in their place. Wendy knelt and picked up a pillow, went around to the other side of the bed, and slipped in, fitting herself against his broad back. She slowly and carefully worked one paw into the long fur on his abdomen, gave vent to a small but content sigh, and closed her eyes. In less than four minutes she was out.

Karl had been aware of her presence since before she opened his door. He'd wanted to learn what she was up to, and tracked all her movements, ready to object if things went too far. But evidently all she wanted to do was get a decent night's sleep. _Poor kid. She's really going through a rough patch here these last months. No wonder she's all keyed up._ He decided to let her stay where she was. Eventually he dropped back off to sleep himself.

##

_** 11:10am **_

Quinn glanced up from his book when the door opened. Tom shut it firmly behind him, waved, and walked over. The old raccoon motioned to the bundle under Tom's arm and asked, "That the papeh?"

"Ayah. Last three days. Jake on the snowplow brought 'em. Thought ya might want ta take a look."

Quinn accepted the papers gratefully, making some grumbling noises about the snow to which the elderly feline gave hearty assent. "All 'at white crap don't make it any easieh bein' old."

"Ayah."

The two geezers read in silence for a bit when Tom grunted in disgust. Quinn raised an eyebrow at him. The cat folded the paper over and pointed at a small article in the 'Nation' section. "Damn country pourin' itself straight ta hell on a greased slide."

"Politicians?"

"I wish. Nah, it's anotheh serial killeh. This un eats his victims."

"Hell ya say."

"Ayah. Says heah the FIA just now put the pieces t'getheh. This wacko's been leavin' a trail o' corpses 'cross the uppeh Midwest, just south o' Canada, for a few months now. Started in Montana. They found the last uns on Lake Michigan. Young couple, married six months." Tom spat.

"There be a lot o' furs walkin' around what are doin' nothin' but usin' up somebody else's oxygen an' takin' up somebody else's space."

"Ayah."

"It say whetheh they got any leads on 'im?"

"Hmm …" Tom read the rest of the article. "Nope. They ain't givin' out much detail. Cops lookin' fer somebody strong. Says he ripped those last two apart."

"Don't much like tha sound o' that."

"Nope."

Quinn scanned down the piece he was holding. "You got yestiddy's sports page theah?"

"Ayah. Heah ya go."

**##**

**Here Ends Chapter 5 of Book 5.**

**Please leave a review.**

**This may be easily accomplished by clicking the small box just below.**

**The Management thanks you.**


	34. Chapter 6 Happy Holidays!

**_Chapter Six – Happy Holidays_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**A kiss can be a comma,  
****a question mark or an exclamation point.**

**_-Mistinguett_**

##

_** Wednesday 21 December 2016, 8:15am **_

A large grandfather clock dominated one corner in the Fairy Tale Suite's Receiving Room. Unless all the doors between were open, neither its deep, regular ticking nor the quarter-hour chimes could be heard from the bed-chamber. But Wendy had shut none of the doors on the far side of the Servants' Walk when she came in the night before, and it would seem that someone else had recently left the bed-chamber door open as well. The mellow four-note call pulled her eyelids apart.

Karl lay there alongside her, stretched to his full length, his head propped up on the back of his left paw, regarding her silently. She proffered a hopeful smile, and exhaled a tiny sigh of relief when he smiled back. Softly, she said, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself."

She reached over and rubbed one massive arm. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. To what do I owe the honor?"

"Oh, an honor, is it?"

"I could in no wise conceive it to be anything else."

"Wow. Okay, but it's not earth -shattering or anything. I just had a bad dream and couldn't get back to sleep."

His concern was palpable. "The nightmares are back?"

"No. No, nothing like that. I think it was just … all the crap I've been going through coming home to roost." She made a helpless gesture with her free paw. "I was feeling lonely and needed to snuggle."

"I see. And I'm the teddy-bear-designate."

"Heh. Yeah, you could say that." She covered a yawn; then lay back in a long and luxurious stretch, pulling the gown's thin fabric taut over her chest. Karl raised an eyebrow, trying not to stare, but didn't say anything until she finished.

"You know, it's not the safest thing in the world to do," he observed, "sneaking into someone's bed in the middle of the night."

She giggled. "I didn't just sneak into _'someone's'_ bed. I snuck into yours."

"Nevertheless. You have no way of knowing what sorts of … _unpleasant_ things might happen as a result of such actions."

That brought a disbelieving guffaw. "I should be so lucky."

"I'm serious, Wendy. On the one paw, I'm only a fur, a mere mortal such as yourself. You are a _most_ attractive femme, and I am not _totally_ immune to temptation."

"Glad to hear it," she snickered. "There's hope for you yet."

He frowned. "On the _**other**_ paw … you need to keep in mind that I'm about four times your mass, and a LOT stronger than you. I might hurt you in my sleep without meaning to."

"Oh, come on! You _can't_ be … um …" She recalled a couple of the times that his physical strength had been demonstrated in her presence. "Well … maybe. But look, I'm pretty strong myself, y'know."

He sat up on the bed and wove his legs into the lotus position, then held his arms straight out in front. He pointed his index fingers at each other and touched the tips together. "Try separating my fingers."

"What, just pull 'em apart?"

"Right."

"Does any little bit count?"

"Yep."

"Okay." She reached up and grabbed one index finger and pulled. Her eyes widened. Granite could hardly have been more immobile. She sat up and used both paws, one on each finger, put a foot against his belly and yanked, grunting with the effort. They both rocked a bit on the bed, but his fingers didn't budge.

Karl merely gazed at her for a moment and then said, "Do you see what I mean?"

She gave up. "Oh, okay. When you put it that way …" She flopped back down on the bed and nibbled at her lower lip briefly, then patted him on the knee. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should've awakened you. But if I'd done that, there was a chance you might send me packing, and I didn't want to _take_ that chance, and … well …" Her muzzle took on a stubborn line. "Okay, you can say what you want to, I'm _not_ sorry I did it. It felt _really_ good to snuggle up with you and I slept like a _rock_ the rest of the night, and if I had it to do all over again, I _would_."

He gave his head a slight shake and then unfolded himself, rolled off the bed and stood in a single continuous motion. "You beat all. You really do."

Frowning, she propped herself up on one elbow. "So how'd you get so strong anyway?"

He gave her a long look and shrugged. "I work out a lot."

"Bullshit. I've known body-builders and power-lifters, and not a one of 'em comes even close." She narrowed her eyes. "You've got an edge. There's something different about you, something fundamentally different."

"That certainly is an active imagination you've got there."

"I don't think so." She stared at him contemplatively. "No, I don't think so at all. In fact, a lot of little things are starting to add up."

_This vixen is too blasted smart for her own good._ "And I think you have no idea what you're talking about."

"Okay, well, let's ruminate over it for a minute." She began ticking points off on her fingers. "You're some kind of inventive genius, in at least three fields that I've seen. You remember things better than anyfur else I ever met. You're _stronger_ than anyfur else I ever met, by a damn sight, as you've just demonstrated. You eat enough for three furs your size, but you burn it all up."

"Now that's just …"

"Hush. You do. I've seen you put away better than ten thousand calories in a single meal, and still I don't think enough fat could be rendered from your carcass to make a bar of soap." She put up a paw when he opened his mouth to protest again. "Don't interrupt. I'm on a roll here. You're fast. Oh, yes, you think I don't remember? When we almost got caught by that rainstorm while we were on that little sight-seeing tour? You were _carrying_ me and you got us back to the truck in a time that would have put an Olympic sprinter to shame. I didn't give it much thought at the time because so much else was going on, but I remember. And, if you are to be believed, you appear to be less than _half_ your chronological age. Ergo, something weird is going on. Or are you gonna try telling me that's any kind of normal?"

Karl crossed his arms, but said nothing.

"What? No rebuttal?"

He gave his head a dismissive shake. "What's to rebut? Other than the fact that you exaggerated on several points. So I'm strong and fast. So what? I should be. I work at it hard enough."

She held up a finger. "Strong and fast _and_ smart _and_ a hell of a lot older than you seem to be."

His muzzle and shoulders went through an elaborate shrug-and-dismissal routine. "And that means exactly what? You think I'm a mutant or something? Doesn't that strike you as a bit … well, silly?"

"You know Holmes' Law. When you've eliminated the impossible …"

He studied her face for a moment, and then said, "Have you ever heard of an author yclept Kenneth Robeson?"

"Robeson?"

"Uh-huh."

She snickered. "I must have really rattled you."

"Why," he asked with a raised eyebrow, "would you say that?"

"Because that's a rather more clumsy attempt to change the subject than I would normally give you credit for."

"I'm doing no such thing. Have you heard of him?"

"No. Can't say as I have. What'd he write?"

"Pulp fiction. Specifically, among other things, he wrote a series of books, short science-fiction novels, about a mythical super-normal character, a golden lion by the name of Clark Savage, Junior. Usually called 'Doc' Savage."

"Wait. Yeah … I think I've heard that name somewhere. Wasn't there a movie?"

"There were four that I know of, not counting anime, which I don't. They had, in my opinion, lousy direction and worse casting, but they developed something of a cult following. That has nothing to do with Doc Savage's involvement in my life, though."

"Whoa! Hold it. Are you trying to tell me he was a _real_ fur?"

"Oh, no; not at all. To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Robeson made him up out of whole cloth. But my father was an extremely avid fan and student of everything related to the _concept_ of Doc Savage."

" … O-o-o-o-o-kay. I am now officially confused."

"I'll try to fix that. You see, Doc Savage's own father, Clark Savage, Senior, had developed a plethora of special exercises and study techniques in which he instructed his son, thereby producing a – well, a final product, if you will – in the form of a being with extraordinary strength and intelligence. And the son was of a similar mental set, and he threw himself into the work, and became this paragon of physical perfection and protean genius, bent on battling evil and injustice the world over. Or so the story goes."

"All right. Sounds like standard sci-fi uber-dreck to me, but if the market liked it, oh, well." She shrugged one shoulder diffidently. "Were there a lot of these stories?"

"Dozens. Mr. Robeson was quite prolific. And my father read them all, and thought he had some really terrific ideas."

"Ah-huh. And so I take it that your father figured he'd do that same sort of thing with you?"

Karl nodded. "For many years before I was born, he worked to become expert in any number of cutting-edge education techniques and early-life strength-enhancement programs, and had perfected his own systems by the time I came along."

"You're an only child, aren't you?"

"Correct. So he poured everything he'd learned and everything he felt I could absorb into his … _project_."

Wendy took note of the slightly bitter tone in that statement. "Guess it wasn't much fun for you, though, huh?"

"No. It wasn't. One might say that I didn't have his passion for the mission. I went along with it until my mid teens because he was my father and I respected him."

"But you two had a falling out, didn't you?"

He nodded once, his gaze steady.

"You ever make up with him?"

"After a fashion."

"You get along okay now?"

It took him a couple of seconds to respond. "We probably would, were he alive."

"Oh. That's right. You told me that before." She regarded him with sympathy. "I'm sorry."

Karl sighed and turned away slightly, staring off into a corner. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but my family history is not all sweetness and light. I left home at fifteen. It would be nice if you'd just let it go at that."

"Okay." The utter lack of any strenuous objection on his part, and the subsequent revelations of his background, sort of deflated the vixen. "Well, hell."

"What?"

"I dunno. This is all a little anti-climactic. It just seems like there's a lot more to you than meets the senses."

"I'm just me, Wendy. That's all I've ever been."

"I'd like to believe that."

He shook his head. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth would be a good start. And I don't mean snippets and tidbits."

"Seems to me we've already covered all the ground we need to. Aside from the obvious physical attributes, what's left to explain?" His face screwed itself into a rueful expression. "How would it be if I spun you a tale of mad scientists and rogue governmental agencies and international intrigue and experimentation into arcane and forbidden areas of genetic research. Would that make you feel better?"

Her muzzle opened and shut a few times. She huffed a big breath and got out of the bed on the opposite side. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm trying not to be. I'd appreciate it if you'd return the favor."

"Fine. So how old are you, then?"

"_Why_ is that such a big _deal_ to you?"

"Feminine curiosity. How old?"

"Old enough that they don't card me in bars any more."

"Bars? I thought you were a Christian. Aren't you supposed to abstain from liquor or something?"

"I'm not in one of those denominations."

"But you _**are**_ in a denomination that lies about your age?"

"I _haven't_ lied about my age! I told you. I'm older than you are."

She tapped her foot a few times. "You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

"If I ever think you need to know details, you'll know."

"Why are you being so damned _secretive_ about it? Males aren't usually so sensitive."

"Why does it _matter_ so much to you? Are you this persistent with your other friends and acquaintances? Or do you even bother to wonder about other furs' birthdays?"

That stopped her. She opened her muzzle to answer, but bit the reply off in mid-syllable.

He grinned. "You don't, do you? This super-sleuth bit is just for my benefit, isn't it?"

"Humph." She gazed off into the distance for a moment, and then shrugged and said, "It's just barely possible that I may be overanalyzing things a bit."

"I'd say that was a safe bet."

"Well, my gut's telling me it's empty. If I'm going to be overanalyzing things, I do it better on the outside of a good breakfast. What do you say to a sausage-and-pepper omelet?"

"I say, 'Ten eggs per omelet, please,' and then I ask for seconds."

"Yeah, that sounds about like you." She came around the bed, walked up to him, and poked him in the stomach. "And I _will_ figure you out, sooner or later."

"As you say, milady."

##

_** 10:40am **_

Karl set his knight down on a black square. "Check."

"Sonuvabitch!"

The corners of Karl's muzzle crept upward. "I don't remember that particular phraseology appearing anywhere in the international rule book. And I studied it pretty thoroughly."

"Bite me! That's gonna be mate in four, and that'll make four in a row, dammit!"

"Sorry. I can't play to lose. It's not in my nature."

Over crossed arms, she said, "I'll bet you lost at least one girlfriend that way, too."

"Well … several, to be truthful. But they weren't what you'd call _serious_ girlfriends."

She met his eyes in silence for a moment. "Did … did you ever really _have_ a serious girlfriend … other than Phoebe?"

He tapped his lower lip with a knuckle a few times before answering. "Yes. I did; on two occasions. But I'd rather not talk about it. Those relationships ended … rather badly."

"Damn, son! Has your life just been one long series of downers?"

"Oh, I don't know that I'd characterize it in quite _that_ way …"

"Haven't you ever had just a plain, old good time?"

"Well … sure. I mean …"

"Haven't you ever had times when you were truly happy?"

He leaned forward and nodded with conviction, his expression earnest. "Yes, indeed. I'm truly happy right now."

She stared at him for a moment, then stood and came around to his chair. She put her arms around his neck and her cheek against his temple and gave him a firm, lingering hug. Then she kissed the tip of his ear, whispered, "Thank you," and skipped quickly out of the library. Mentally, he followed her progress in the direction of the kitchen.

A dopey grin crept across his muzzle._ So **that's** what saying the right thing feels like._

He got up and trotted out to the stairwell across from the porte cochere where he'd secreted his pack the evening before. He opened it and removed a largish box that was wrapped in bright red foil and secured with a blue satin ribbon. Tucking this under one arm, he headed down the South Hall, whistling softly.

Wendy wasn't in the kitchen when he got there. He heard her, around the corner in the Main Hall, calling his name. _Sometimes I think this place is just too darn big._ "In here, Wendy!" He set the box down on the table.

She came trotting back. "Oh, there you are. Thought you'd disappeared, and I didn't want to …" She pulled up short when she spied the box. "What's that?"

"Hey, Wendy, what sorts of plans do you have for Christmas?"

"… 'scuse me?"

"See, the thing is I'm going to be spending Christmas day at the O'Musca house. They insisted. I'm sure you'd be welcome, if you don't have other plans."

"Well … yeah, sure, I guess. I mean, if they don't mind. And if I can make it." A thought occurred to her. "And if I can find it. I've never actually been out to Siobhan's place, and although I do have her address, it might be a little tricky to find in the snow." She turned back to the box and pointed at it. "So, what's this?"

"It's a little present."

"For me?"

"No, silly, for Abraham Lincoln. Of course it's for you."

"But that's not fair! I didn't get you anything!"

"You've given me your company, which is _ample_ compensation for anything I might have brought."

Her muzzle fluffed out a little and she averted her gaze. "What is it?"

"Well, that's why I wanted to know your holiday plans. If you're going to be at the O'Musca's, I'd ask you to wait to open it there. If you aren't sure, you can open it now."

"Karl, nothing in life is completely sure."

"It's up to you. All I ask is that you open it in my presence."

"Okay, I'll open it now!" And she did. The wrapping came off to reveal a rectangular wooden box or chest about fifty centimeters tall, thirty-five wide and maybe twenty-five deep. It sat on four very short carved legs. The base wood was a rich mahogany, and it was inlaid with several other varieties of wood, tiny bits of crystal, and three different precious metals. Wendy walked slowly around the table, examining the item from all sides. The inlaid designs came together in stylized patterns evocative of birds in flight, and night sky, and a deep river, and crystal leaves in the wind. The top was an abstract motif that put her in mind of a cross between a fractal and a kaleidoscope. Every surface was lustrous with what she assumed to be carefully applied and highly polished varnish. "It's … magnificent." She looked up at him with round eyes. "What is it?"

He gave a small laugh. "It's a jewelry box. I know you may already have one, but this one doubles as a safe, and it's fire resistant as well."

She peered closely at the box. "I don't see any latch or anything. How do I open it?"

"Okay, this is the front," he said, pointing at the long face with the wind-blown tree. "If you'll notice, there is a flock of birds over here on the right face and a pattern of stars around here on the left."

She looked around the box at both sides. "Umm … right. I see that."

"Now, place the fingers of your right paw over these three birds, and the fingers of your left over these three stars."

"Like this?"

"Just like that. Now, put your right thumb on this big gold leaf here, and your left on this triangular one."

"All right. There. Now what do …" Her voice trailed off. With a barely audible _click_, a slightly irregular line had appeared down the front face, growing immediately to a crack about a centimeter wide. She tugged and the two halves swung easily apart. "Ooo! That is so _cool!_"

"Thanks. It's a magnetic latch, so it locks any time you close it."

She did so, opening and closing the case a few times. Each side had a hidden hinge at its rear corner, and each half folded out again, revealing a total of eight main cubbies, every inner surface covered with a fine, black velvet. The inside rear of the case was comprised of an array of tiny drawers, putting Wendy in mind of an apothecary's chest.

"Karl, this is lovely! You really shouldn't have!"

"And why not?"

"It's a … well, it's just … awfully extravagant. I guess. And it must have been terribly expensive."

"Most of the materials were part of a much bigger project that I've been working on, and didn't set me back all that much. The box isn't really very big, after all. And my time is my own to do with as I wish. So, no, I'd have to say it wasn't expensive, in the sense you mean."

Her eyebrows climbed high. "You _**made**_ this?" Examining the case again, she whistled. "It must have taken months!"

"Not at all. As you've pointed out on more than one occasion, I _like_ to make things. I enjoy it and I'm good at it. Why shouldn't my friends benefit from my hobby?"

She ran a paw lovingly down the side of the case, musing, _"Why shouldn't we, indeed?"_

"I'm just glad you like it."

"_Like_ it? No. Love it!"

He grinned broadly.

Closing the case again, she commented, "You said it doubles as a safe?"

"That's right."

"How? If all you have to do is touch it just right, that doesn't seem very secure to me."

"Ah! But that's the security feature. All _you_ have to do is touch it just right. Nofur else can open it that way."

"Say what?"

"It's keyed to your alpha wave signature. The pickups are in the inlays. If you aren't the one touching it, the release mechanism won't activate."

"My … my what? Alpha wave? What's that?"

"When you placed your paws on the box to open it that first time, it calibrated itself to your primary brain wave signature. So now it recognizes you alone as the authorized user."

"You're telling me there's a computer in here, too?"

"Yep. Rather limited in scope, but quite powerful in its specific array of functions."

"Damn!"

"What?"

"That's … it's …" She lifted her paws and let them drop in a gesture of confusion. "I mean, _damn!_ Talk about overkill."

"Nah. It was fun."

"Fun. Right." Her head wobbled a bit in disbelief. "But still, how is it a safe? It's just wood, isn't it?"

"The veneer is wood. The core of each wall is a … composite material."

"Composite?"

"Uh-huh."

"I see. And just what are they 'composited' of?"

"Um … well … different things."

"Like what?"

"How much do you know about metallurgy?"

"Eh … not quite enough to get me in trouble. I know ferrous from non-ferrous, and what makes a metal a metal."

"Okay. Um, the inner wall is a laminate. I sandwiched a woven static-resist carbon nanotube sheet between an osmium-beryllium super-alloy and one using primarily cobalt and nickel, with a whisker-reinforced metal-matrix ceramic as the initial substrate."

She snorted a small laugh. "And a partridge in a pear tree. Sorry I asked."

"I could give you the long version if you like."

"No thanks. I don't think I'll live long enough for you to teach me the details behind everything you just said. And, really, I don't need to know any of that stuff to appreciate what you did. And I _do_ appreciate it. It's a lovely gift." She giggled. "I just wish you'd let me be a little more demonstrative of my appreciation."

"Now, Wendy …"

"Oh, don't worry about it. You're safe, you old prude." She pulled his face down far enough to give him a chaste peck on the side of his muzzle. "What I wanted to find out, before you got me so terribly side-tracked, is what you would like for lunch. Any ideas?"

"Oh-ho! Hitting me above the belt again, eh?"

"It's a ludicrously easy target. Not that I ever recall your _wearing_ a belt."

"Granted."

"I was thinking along the lines of fowl. I've got pheasant and duck that could be ready in a timely fashion. Something en croute with a little fruit compote, maybe a dill-thyme sauce. And there's a loaf of English Crust in the pie safe, ready to slice, and a few nice bottles of claret to wash it all down."

He began salivating noticeably.

She dimpled, and continued, "Plus, I've got the makings of some fried apple pies. We can have those with coffee a little later."

"I love it when you talk dirty."

Her tinkling laugh brought him back to earth. "Just doing my part to be the gracious hostess. You wanna peel the apples for me?"

"You got it!"

##

**I can resist everything except temptation**.

**-**_**Oscar Wilde**_

##

_** Friday 23 December 2016, noon **_

The snow shovel clattered loudly against the side of the house where Wendy dropped it. She staggered in through the porte cochere door, huffing loudly and beating her mittened paws against her arms. Shucking out of the parka and balaclava, and pulling the mittens off with her teeth, she huddled over the heating grate, rubbing her paws against each other and cursing the depth of the snow with a lusty creativity.

When her icicle-to-blood ratio finally fell into acceptable limits, she got up and walked back to the kitchen to make herself some lunch … and a big mug of hot chocolate.

As she passed the doorway she flipped on the lights and activated the stereo system – grateful for the hundredth time that the county had restored power to the area – pulled a number out of the air and punched it into the selector. In a few seconds a sultry salsa beat began pounding out of the speakers, bringing a grin to her face. She went over to the pantry and rummaged around for the spices she'd need to create an appropriately hot dish to go with it.

She had three pots simmering and some pita bread toasting when the chime for the front door went off, startling her. _Damn! I just get the drive cleared and already there's a visitor? Now that's service!_ Not wanting the bread to burn, she pulled it out of the oven and set it on the sideboard. Before trotting off to the Main Hall, she turned down the volume on her sound system.

All the doors to the entry area were closed on account of the cold, so she couldn't see the main door until actually getting into the foyer. It didn't help, though. There was no silhouette visible through the small, faceted panes, no shadow cast by the mystery visitor. Wendy hurried over to the viewing panel and peeked through it: no sign of any furs, but there _was_ a car parked in the drive, one of those snazzy little Daimler 202's. A dotted-line of footprints led from the car to the steps, so she knew somebody was around. Reasoning that neither robber nor rapist would go so far as to ring the doorbell, she decided to poke her head outside and scope out the porch.

A welcome calm had settled in after the ugly weather of a few days earlier, bringing clear skies of breath-taking depth and vivid blue. Nevertheless, the piercing cold lingered. Parkas and mukluks would be the order of the day for the foreseeable future for anyone walking or working outside. But standing at the edge of the porch, she could at least feel the sunlight on her fur. She stuck her paws into her pockets and tried to read the license plate on the red sports car.

"How the hell did you luck into this place?"

The voice came from behind her. She gave a startled yip as she wheeled around, and fell into one of her fighting stances. But that only lasted for a second when she recognized her visitor.

"Jenna!"

"Hey, girlfriend. How you been?"

Wendy leaped forward and gathered the petite skunk into a fierce hug, which was returned with enthusiasm. "Jenna! What are you … when did … how'd you find me?"

"Your ol' pal, Sabrina. When I found some mangy ocelot living in your old apartment, I looked her up. Figured she'd know where you'd gone. And she did."

"It is **SO GOOD** to see you!"

The skunk gave a low laugh. "Gods, Wendy, you sound like you've been stuck at McMurdo Station for six months."

"Not far from the truth, girl, lemme tell you." She rearranged the embrace to a one-armed grip of Jenna's waist and steered them toward the door. "Let's get inside before we have to catch our words and thaw 'em out to hear each other talk."

There was that laugh again. It warmed Wendy more than any central heating system could have hoped to do. A thousand memories played through her head, the vast majority of them very pleasant.

Jenna was most interested in getting the nickel tour, but Wendy prevailed upon her to have lunch with her first, and the skunk quickly found that she was glad of it. "When did you pick up all this gourmet stuff?" she asked, licking off her fingers with a delicate tongue.

"Here and there, girlfriend, here and there. I'd been dabbling in it for two or three years before moving up here, and you'd be surprised at how easily it builds on itself. Also," she added, preening just a little, "I seem to have something of a flair for it."

"I'll say!" The skunk downed the last bite of popover, chewing with reflective enjoyment, and finished her drink. "Now. That was _extremely_ nice and all, but I want to see this place."

And they spent the next three hours going through the fascinating old house, stopping frequently for Jenna to 'ooh' and 'aah' over one detail or another while Wendy supplied anecdotes and historical context.

During the tour the vixen managed to pry out of her that she had recently made it to junior partner at the architectural firm where she'd worked for the last several years. But Jenna would adroitly turn the conversation back to Wendy, who was just so happy to have her old and very dear friend to talk to that she hardly even noticed. So they ended up sitting at either end of Wendy's bed, Jenna in rapt attention as the vixen rambled on through the afternoon, talking of the challenges she'd faced getting the Inn on its feet, the incredible fall colors, the colorful clientele, and the even more colorful locals.

When supper time came they repaired to the kitchen and scrounged something light. Jenna remarked on the quality of the wine, and Wendy thoughtfully pulled a couple more bottles out of the cellar. She whipped up a couple of crème brulees and they took them to the library to enjoy with the dessert wine. Eventually the conversation meandered around to Wendy's love life … or rather, the lack thereof.

Jenna swirled the wine in her glass. She was feeling a bit of a flush, enhanced by the nice fire Wendy had started. "So this Conner guy was some kinda closet homophobe?"

"Yeah. Pity, that. He was awfully good in the sack."

"And then Ellen went and got married. That kinda sucks."

"Tell me about it."

"And there's not any other singles around? Kinda hard t' b'lieve."

Wendy smiled. "You're slurring."

"Am not."

"You never could hold your liquor."

"Oh, just 'cause you got a holla leg you think e'erbody else's wimps. 'sides, it ain't liquor, it's wine." She tossed off the last swallow and set her glass down. "Tha's all f'r me anyhow."

Wendy grinned. "More for me." Suiting actions to words, she topped off her glass and leaned back in her chair, working her left shoulder around.

" 's wrong with y'r arm?"

"Oh, I guess it's just old age creeping up on me. It hurts sometimes, and I strained it a little this morning, shoveling that damned snow."

"Heh. Damned snow. Be funny if it really was."

"What?"

"Damned. You know." She struck a dramatic pose, a finger pointed aloft. "Condemned to ev'rlastin' torments in the fiery pits." She flopped back and giggled. "Either it'd whiff inta steam, or Hell'd freeze over."

Wendy laughed. "Or the whole place would be a soggy mess."

"Yeah. Demon's'd get their pitchforks stuck in the mud."

They both had a short giggle-fit over that image. Then Jenna got to her feet, a bit unsteadily, and walked around behind Wendy. "Lean for'ard a li'l an' turn y' back to me."

"Ooo! You gonna work on my shoulder?"

"Yeah. Look like you could use it."

Wendy recalled how good Jenna had always been at this. She'd commented more than once that the skunk could always go into the field of therapeutic massage if she ever got tired of designing buildings. As her skilled fingers worked their way from Wendy's neck down her back to knead the knot of muscle beside her scapula, the vixen fairly melted into a puddle right there in the chair.

"Ohhhhhhhh…"

"You like?"

Wendy's voice was more slurred than Jenna's had been. " 'a's … fantaaaaskit … rilly … good …"

Jenna manipulated the taut muscles and tendons until Wendy felt like her torso was composed primarily of overcooked noodles. She'd flopped to the side, leaning her head against the chair's wide wing, utterly relaxed.

"Izzat good?"

"Oh, girl … you have … no idea."

Jenna paused, contemplating her friend for a few moments, then leaned over and gave Wendy's ear a light, slow lick. Wendy's eyes flew open and she turned to look at the skunk. "Jenna?"

"Y'know, gettin' a li'l buzz always did make me kinda horny." She leaned farther and placed a soft kiss on Wendy's muzzle. "Whaddaya think?"

Wendy smiled, stood and took her arm possessively. "I think you're gonna need a little help getting up the stairs."

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Here Ends Chapter Six**

* * *

**This was rather long, I know,  
but I didn't feel like breaking it up into the logical pieces.  
They would all have been too short.  
So this is what you get.**

**Kindly leave a review.  
Feel free to speculate on this latest development in Wendy's love life.**

**Thanks to all, and Happy Reading!**


	35. Chapter 7 Gathering Part A

_**Chapter Seven – Gathering - Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**The most terrible poverty is loneliness  
****and the feeling of being unloved.**

**-**_**Mother Teresa**_

##

_** Saturday 24 December 2016, 7:40am **_

Wendy was the first to wake this day.

She lay there for several minutes, letting her eyes trace the outlines of Jenna's face. The skunk was a silent sleeper. She had never snored as far as Wendy could remember. And now, in the early morning light filtering through the layers of chintz over the windows, she looked amazingly peaceful, almost childlike. _She doesn't really resemble Sabrina that much after all. Yeah, the fur pattern is similar, but that's about it._ She tenderly ran a fingertip along the outside of one of Jenna's pert little ears, causing her bedmate to sigh and stir a bit. _ Got one of those faces that stands up well to time and a figure that stands up well to gravity._ She smiled sleepily to herself. _And she __certainly__ seems willing to be more than friends._

She stretched languorously, enjoying the moment and remembering the previous evening. _She hasn't lost her touch. But then, given what I heard out of her, neither have I._

A few more peaceful minutes passed, and Wendy, coming more fully awake, decided to whip up breakfast in bed as a 'thank you'. Her top priority right now, though, was a nice long shower. She slid out from under the quilt and counterpane, shivering a little in the bracing morning air. Snagging her robe from the mirrored valet stationed by the door, she slipped it on as she padded across the Servants' Walk into the bathroom.

##

The first thing that registered on Jenna's consciousness was Wendy's lilting contralto wafting in from the bathroom. Her eyes popped open. Clutching the quilt to her bare chest, she sat up abruptly and took in her surroundings: unfamiliar angle to the morning light, unfamiliar room, unfamiliar bed … but an all-too-familiar scent of recent passion.

_Damn._

She furrowed her brow, trying to remember last night through the fuzz of her hangover. There had been good food, a couple of bottles of wine, some kind of dessert and then another bottle of wine. Lots of enjoyable conversation. But everything faded off into a haze somewhere in the midst of the talk.

_Damn! What happened?_

And here she was, dry mouth, pounding head, mussed fur and all. And the heavy, pheromone-laced aroma that permeated the sheets and hung in the air over the bed left no doubt whatsoever about the nature of their subsequent activities.

Did she … were they … had Wendy … _seduced_ her?

This had, under no circumstances, been in her plans.

Suddenly she felt soiled. Things had really gelled between her and Sheila, her steady partner of these last two years, and they had made their relationship official in a civil ceremony a few months back. Frightening images of the svelte marten flitted through her mind. Jenna could only imagine the shock and hurt she would feel if she knew … knew that …

How _**could**_ this have happened? What had she done? What had been done _**to**_ her?

Ha. The answer to that last question was bloody well obvious enough. Shivering, she got out of bed and quickly threw her clothes on, looking around for any of her other items and finding none. Trying to ignore the insistent ache in her temples that lent her steps an unsteady shuffle, she slipped out the door and looked left and right in confusion. Wendy's voice was coming from the doorway directly across from her (what right did _she_ have to sound so happy?) and she did _not_ want to go that way. But she didn't remember seeing this long hallway before, or if she had seen it, it hadn't registered. She turned right and padded silently along the dark and heavily draped passage until she came to a narrow staircase, down which she hastened.

She found the library and located her clutch purse and outer wraps. She paused then in indecision; the pheromones still skittering about in her blood made thinking a chore. She shook her head and looked around for something to write on, spotting the antique secretary to the left of the fireplace. She dashed off a note to Wendy, propped it up on the side table next to the sofa, and speedily made her exit.

The first inkling Wendy had that all might not be rosy was when she turned off the shower. The faint sound of a car's motor came to her sensitive ears, and she froze, listening. _Visitors? This early?_ She stepped out and toweled off as quickly and quietly as she could manage, but the sound of the vehicle, rather than growing, diminished and finally faded entirely. Suspicions rising in her mind, she hurried into the bedroom.

The bed was empty.

Jenna's clothes were gone.

Wendy's blood curdled into a sour knot around her heart.

She tore off to the front of the big house and looked out the window at the lawn. Sure enough, fresh tire tracks from Jenna's car led out to the road, tapering to nothing in the distance.

"Jenna?"

She put a paw up to the glass, not wanting to believe her eyes, willing the scene to change. _She couldn't! She's my friend! She __wouldn't__!_

But, she had.

Leaning her head against the cold pane, she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that threatened to spill, and fought her panic back down. She walked, much more slowly, back to her room to get dressed.

##

_** 9:10am **_

Wendy sat before the big picture window in a tall wing-back chair, grimly hitting the speed-dial on her PA every minute or two. But either Jenna had her unit off or she just wasn't picking up: it dumped immediately to voice mail every time. And the vixen desperately needed to talk with her friend.

Jenna's note lay folded on her lap. The message had been brief, but bitter:

_Wendy_

_I don't know what to say. I can't believe you'd do that._

_What you did. I just can't believe you'd treat me that way._

_I've got to go. Please don't call me._

_Jenna_

Wendy was too emotionally vexed over this intolerable situation for tears to do any good, and so her face remained dry.

What had spooked the skunk? What did she think Wendy had done? Why wouldn't Jenna tell her what was wrong? Why such cryptic language in her note? And why the hell did she run off like that?

So many questions, and nowhere to go for answers.

_Damn it, Jenna! How could you? How could you do this to me?_

Eventually she gave up and powered the unit off. Jenna was gone … her friend was gone … her friend, that might have become a lover, that had _certainly_ shown every indication of wanting just that only the night before, was gone, and Wendy had no clue as to why. She sat there in that chair, turning these thoughts over in her mind, examining them from every angle she could think of, as the morning aged. The despair crept back, slowly gathering force, along with the dull, aching depression that had haunted her a week ago. The events of the morning left her no appetite for breakfast, and lunchtime also came and went without her notice. After a while she got up and paced around the house, not really having any destination in mind, but feeling on some basic level that the activity might work off some of the restlessness that was building up inside her.

It didn't help much.

Early afternoon found her in the kitchen. She'd turned on the sound system an hour or so before, but if anyone had asked, she wouldn't have been able to recall what tunes had played in that time. She leaned up against the sink, paws on the edge of the counter, giving the snow and the forest and brilliant blue sky a first-class thousand-meter stare. A low growl startled her back to herself, and she jerked around looking for the source. When it came again, she realized it was her stomach talking to her.

It occurred to her that she couldn't remember eating anything all day. _Eh. Guess my body knows better than I do. Must be why I'm standing here._ Somewhat listlessly she moved over to the refrigerator to see what was available for scrounging. As she searched among the various bottles and containers, she spied a jar of the ultra-hot capsaicin extract that Karl enjoyed so much. She picked it up and stared at it.

… Karl.

She tried to think, through the sullen sadness that had her in its grip, about something he'd told her the last time they were together. He'd said something … something about an invitation.

He was going to be at … was it at Siobhan's? Yeah. That was it.

And he'd invited her to come along.

She slowly put the jar back, and then let the refrigerator door swing shut,. She leaned up against the smooth, stainless-steel surface and ran her options over in her mind. A few minutes later, she headed back upstairs to her room, stopped in front of the antique dresser where he'd attached her new jewelry box, placed her fingertips in the appropriate spots, and clicked it open. She'd lost no time in transferring the bulk of her valuables to the new case, and was pleased with how much room she had left. She scanned the contents and then went over to her armoire and began rummaging through it.

Forty-five minutes later, she locked the porte cochere door behind her and hustled into her van. She started the engine and sat there for a minute, letting it warm up. She'd left the radio on, and tuned to one of the local 'oldies' stations she liked. The DJ was just finishing her introduction of the next song. It was _Incomplete_, by the Backstreet Boys.

She'd heard the song before. It wasn't one she liked that well. It tended to depress her. She moved her thumb over the wheel control to change the station. But then she stopped.

I've tried to go on like I never knew you

I'm awake but my world is half asleep

I pray for this heart to be unbroken

But without you all I'm going to be is incomplete

That put structure to the feelings she'd been wrestling with all day. Jenna's leaving had broken her. She didn't understand it; couldn't understand it. She didn't think she _wanted_ to understand it. All she knew was that it hurt her deeply. Jenna had been the one to pull her out of the hideous depression that Arthur's abuse had left. Jenna had always been her friend, a trusty confidant, a bulwark of love … and more. She had never asked for more than Wendy could give. Hell, she'd never asked for more than Wendy's happiness.

Maybe that's why this hurt so badly. The betrayal had come from such an unexpected quarter.

She waited for the song to reach its end, then turned the radio back off, and just sat there as the dull melancholy settled back into her brain.

What was she doing here?

Why was she going to Siobhan's?

Did she actually think she had anything worthwhile to contribute to their celebration?

Did she really want to share their familial happiness with them? Or was she just looking for something to fill the ache that Jenna's departure had left behind?

What right did she have to foist herself and her problems on the O'Musca's? The more she thought about it, the more she felt that they would have a much better time without her there.

She drew a long breath and exhaled slowly through her mouth; then she turned off the van, got out, and trudged back inside.

##


	36. Chapter 7 Gathering Part B

_**Chapter Seven**__** – Gathering - Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen, **  
**when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even. **  
**Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel, **  
**when a poor man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuel. **  
**– _Traditional Carol_**

##

_** 9:40am **_

In the days and weeks before Christmas, business at the Fixit Shop tended to slow down dramatically. The weather usually had somewhat more than a little to do with that, and this year was an outstanding example. All the regulars knew that Karl cut back his hours of operation from December through February to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, afternoons only. He always placed a small sign saying as much in the window by the front door. But since he lived in the garret above the Shop, he was typically "around" if someone who truly needed help happened by. Today, however, he propped the "Closed for the Holiday" sign in the window before going through his lock-up routine.

He spent a busy quarter-hour hauling various boxes and crates up from the sub-basement and arranging them in his ATV, which he had outfitted with a snow blower earlier in the week. After getting everything arranged to his satisfaction and strapped down, he fired up the power plant and plugged on down the road. With his current arrangement, the half-meter of white stuff that had accumulated over the last few days was merely pretty, instead of being life-threatening, and it wasn't too long before he arrived at the O'Musca house. He left the packages in the vehicle for the time being.

Siobhan was puttering around in the kitchen, but Sean was playing with his younger brother on the floor in the front room, and jumped up to answer the door when Karl knocked. As Sean closed the door against the insistent wind, Robert, who was but seven, squealed, "Mista Karl!" and hurled himself at the wolverine's left leg.

Karl pretended to absorb a tremendous impact, and staggered back against the wall. "Aiee! I'm being killed! Get him off! Get him off!" He lifted the leg and shook it gently, failing to dislodge the young mouse, who was giggling non-stop. "Siobhan, help! I've got a bad case of limpet over here!"

"Aye, an' 'tis yer own fault, I'll warrant. Sneakin' oop on th' child tha' way." She chuckled and wiped her paws on her apron as she walked over to him. "It's ashamed ye should be, ye great mountain of a fur." She gave his waist a quick hug and reached up to pat his cheek. "Tis tha' good t' see ye, Karl. I thank 'ee fer comin'."

He returned her grin and stated, "I wouldn't have missed it, Siobhan." Gazing around the room, and then down at the little fellow who was stuck to his leg, he added, "You've no idea what this scenario does for me."

Martin walked in, asking, "Did I hear the door? Och! Karl! Ye made it!"

"Of course I made it. You think a little snow would keep me away?"

"No, that I did not, and that's the truth of it." He came over and shook his employer's paw. "Come on in, have a sit."

Karl did, making an exaggerated show of the 'enormous weight' still attached above his ankle. But Martin quickly found him a sturdy chair, and then pressed a mug of spiced apple cider into his paw. Robert looked up and sniffed. "Izzat cider, Martin? Would ye get me some cider? In me cup? Okay? C'n I have some cider? Martin? C'n I have some? Please? Martin? C'n I have …"

"Aye! Sure!" He rolled his eyes. "Saints above, but ye can be a tiresome little thing." He rose from his seat by the fireplace and went to get Robert's cup.

Karl peeled the little guy off his leg and set him on his lap. "Say, Robert, where's that other brother of yours?"

"Ian's off gittin' firewood."

"Not chopping it, I hope."

"Nossir, it's a'ready all chopped. 'e's workin' off the cord 'gainst the back o' th' house."

No sooner had these words left his mouth than the door to the kitchen banged open and Ian came in with an armload of oak. His face lit up when he saw Karl and he half-dropped, half-placed the snow-dusted logs into the bin beside the fireplace before coming over to shake the big fur's paw. "Hi, Mr. Karl!"

"Ian, how d'ya do?"

"Fine, sir. I got tha' model finished."

"Did you now? Mind if I see it?"

Ian scampered off upstairs. Robert poked him in the belly and said, "Do the horsey!"

"Horsey?" asked Karl, his eyes twinkling. "I'm quite sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

They played this game every time Karl came around. Laughter spilled from the little mouse as he said, "You know! You know horsey! Lady ride an' gennemen ride an' cowboy ride! You know!"

Karl chuckled and gave in, and they were on their third rendition when Ian came back downstairs with his scale-model P-38 fighter in one paw. He presented it proudly to Karl, who steadied Robert on his knee. The wolverine took it gently and looked it over with a critical eye. "Hmm. Hmm." He turned it over, examining the wheel assemblies, and then opened the cockpit. "Hmm."

"I don' have a pilot for it yit. Haven' had th' time to put one togither."

"I may be able to help you there. What species were you fancying for the pilot?"

"Been tryin' to find a Irish Setter on account of I want 'im to look like 'Red' O'Reilly."

Karl grinned at the young fellow. "I'll see what I can do. Might be able to scare up something appropriate."

"I'd be that grateful if you could."

Martin walked back in with Robert's cider. The little mouse hopped down off Karl's leg and took his plastic cup with delight. His oldest brother admonished, "Either sit down or go into th' kitchen. Mum just got this floor cleaned and she'll have y'r hide if ye muck it up again." Robert dutifully marched into the other room.

Martin took a seat and asked, "Got th' shop all closed up, then?"

"Ayah. We'll open up again on the fifth. No point in doing it sooner."

"Aye. I s'pose ye've seen the weather forecast?"

"Right." He shook his head ruefully and took a sip of the rich cider. "We can't catch a break this winter, looks like."

"Thought I'd be used to it by now. All th' snow, I mean. But it nivver gits easier t' manage."

"Don't feel too bad. All the old-timers are going on about how this is the worst season for the white stuff in anyone's memory. When the natives won't dare to venture out, you should emulate them."

"You didn't."

Karl just gave an understated smile in answer.

Siobhan came in then with a plate of raisin-oat scones. "Would ye be tryin' one o' these with yer cider, Karl?"

"Don't mind if I do." He took a couple of the crumbly pastries and set them on a tray on the little table between his chair and Martin's. Siobhan didn't move, though, holding the plate out with a bemused smile. He looked at her and asked, "What?"

"There be two dozen on th' plate. Ye may as well save y'silf th' trouble o' reachin' fer seconds."

He grinned and piled his tray with six or seven more.

"Aye, tha's more like it." She set the plate on the mantel and took a seat on the other side of Martin, nibbling a scone of her own. Martin dunked his in his cup of cider, popped it into his mouth, and moaned happily.

"So that's how it's done, is it?" remarked Karl. He tried it himself and discovered how well the two flavors complimented each other. "Ooo. That's killer."

They chatted amiably for a few minutes, and then Siobhan commented, "I see ye didn' stop an' git Miz Wylde."

"Hm? Oh. No, I thought it might be a bit early for her. If she hasn't shown up by elevenses, I'll give her a call."

"Aye, ye be sure an' do that. She's noo business rattlin' roun' in tha' monster of a house on Chris'mas Eve by hersilf, an' tha's th' truth of it."

##

The remainder of the morning passed in pleasant conversation and diversion. Robert prevailed upon Karl to play a few rounds of 'Earthquake Mountain'; it didn't take Sean very long to join them, and they passed a pleasant quarter-hour getting repeatedly jettisoned from the big wolverine's belly as he lay at length on the floor. Siobhan got him to do a dramatic reading of the second chapter of Luke, and Martin and Ian put on a paw-puppet show for their brothers that had both of the little ones helpless with laughter.

The scones soon ran out, but they were hardly the bulk of the pastries on paw. Siobhan had been busy for days, preparing a variety of baked goods, and made sure that Karl took advantage of the opportunity to sample them … not that he needed much encouragement.

Karl tried to get in touch with Wendy in the late morning, then again an hour past noon. She answered neither her PA nor her land-line. Siobhan was concerned. "Wha' can she be about, stayin' cooped up by hersilf thataway?"

"I don't know. When I talked to her earlier in the week, she seemed eager for company. She wouldn't even let me leave that night."

Siobhan gave him a look, and he elaborated, "She just didn't want to be alone. It was all very proper. No worries."

"Tha's good t' know." She sighed and said, "Really, now, I nivver know wha' t' make of 'er. She's a changeable lass, she is."

"Hoo! Got that right."

"Well, ye c'n try again in a bit. Mebbe she has it off fer a reason."

The Christmas Eve feast began around two, and went on for close to two hours. When at last everyone got to the point of reluctantly waving off additional helpings, they cleared the table and pushed it off to the side. Martin fetched his harp and Siobhan's flute while Karl retrieved an old fiddle from the ATV, and they spent the late afternoon going through all the traditional Gaelic ballads they knew. When it was full dark, and the young ones could stand the suspense no longer, Robert and Ian pushed Sean over toward their mother with many whispered instructions.

She had just finished doing a "lilt" while Karl and Martin played, and acknowledged her son with a smile. "An' what is it ye be wantin' now, child?"

"It's time t' open th' presents, Mum!"

"Is it, now?" She made a show of pulling out her watch and checking it, showing it to Karl for his opinion, listening to it carefully to make sure it was working, and then tucking it back into her reticule. All the while Sean fidgeted mightily.

She folded her paws in her lap and stated, "Ye be right, son. Each of ye c'n go fetch one." There was a general exodus at that statement, and she called after them, "Jist one!"

Karl excused himself and went out to the ATV, returning a couple of minutes later under the burden of several brightly-wrapped packages, one of which was nearly as long as he was tall. Five pairs of bright eyes watched him closely as he placed them beside the tree, the boys having all opened a present apiece.

Martin turned to his mother and asked, "Think ye maybe we could do Mr. Luscus th' honor next?"

"Aye, that I do." She nodded toward the gaily decorated spruce and said, "Karl, if ye'd look under yon, there be a box wi' yer name on it."

"Siobhan, you all didn't have to …"

"Hush now, ye great beast," she admonished with a smile. "Go an' fetch yer prizzint an' at least _pertend_ t' be a civilized fur."

"Yes, ma'am." And he did as she asked.

It was a largish box, and he carefully removed the lid. The inside was filled with shredded newspapers to cushion the contents. Karl pushed some of it aside and exposed the edge of a rectangular wooden object, which he slowly removed and placed on his lap. It was a picture frame, paw-carved and gleaming, made of some medium-red-brown hardwood. The artisan had placed the scrolls and vines along its perimeter in such a way as to bring out the grain in the burl of which it had been made. As Karl turned it this way and that, sparks of light caught and flashed in the wood's surface. Looking on the back, Karl found Martin's name engraved in small letters along one inside edge.

He looked up at the dormouse, noting the slight blush on his muzzle. "Martin … did you make this yourself?"

"Aye."

"This is one of the nicest pieces of brightwork I've ever seen." He examined the frame closely. "What kind of wood is this?"

"That I canna say. I got it from Ms. Wylde."

Karl's head jerked up. "What?"

"She wanted t' know if I had a use f'r it. It's a leftover piece o' th' floor in th' Main Hall. She found a right stack of 'em in one o' the third floor rooms, an' gave it to me back in th' fall."

Karl looked at the piece with new respect. Knowing what he did of that wood, he understood immediately how much work had gone into the carving. "Well," he said, "I guess this makes my gift all the more appropriate."

"What ye mean?"

"Go get it and you'll find out."

Martin did so, returning soon with a flat box about three spans square. He ripped off the paper, exposing a find fine wooden storage case. In the case was a set of palm tools: chisels, knives, rasps, and gouges suitable for detailed wood-carving. Each was massy and well-balanced, with grips of either ivory or teak, and guards and brads of polished brass. Martin picked up the ten-millimeter U-gouge and examined it closely, then turned to Karl with a big grin. "I love 'em!"

"You're very welcome." He held up the picture frame. "And I love this."

"I'm that glad, then."

"You know, you could make a decent living just by turning out one or two of these each week. There are a lot of furs who'd pay top dollar for work of this caliber."

"P'raps. But I wouldn' have time fer much else if I did."

Siobhan said, "Keep lookin', Karl. Ye've got a fair piece o' box t' go there."

And so it went. The big wolverine received a small but thoughtful token from each of the other boys, and a large crock of brandied fruit compote from Siobhan. In return, the young ones received a can of brightly-colored spillikins; a set of small but intricately and accurately detailed construction equipment made of some heavy, dark gray metal; and a magnetic toy involving hundreds of tiny, polished pieces of steel that could be coaxed and molded into fantastic shapes.

Siobhan was eyeing the long box. "Be that fer me?" she asked in an unbelieving tone.

Karl nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Whatever could ye ha' got me that'd take sich a big package?"

"Open it and find out." And he passed it to her.

But opening the box and uncovering its contents failed to enlighten her. She could see that the object was made of wood and frosted glass, was close to two meters long, and perhaps seventy centimeters wide, and appeared to be folded up. She followed the perfectly-radiused edges with one thumb and looked up at him. "It's beautiful. What is it?"

"You know how you've said, more than once, that you wished Martin had made you a sewing table?"

Her brows rose fractionally as her eyes widened. She looked back down at the object across her lap.

"Where would you like it?"

"What … what do ye mean?"

"It attaches to either the wall or the ceiling. It's out of the way except when you need it. So," he continued, standing, "where do you want it installed?"

Siobhan settled on a location at one end of the kitchen, and Karl had the table assembly mounted on the wall in a couple of minutes. He tripped a latch, whereupon a short lever popped out. "Siobhan, would you like to do the honors?"

She put a hesitant paw on the lever and pulled. The table unfolded like a butterfly from its chrysalis. As the bulk of the unit began coming out and down like a drawbridge, two panels rocked out from the underside and levered up even with the center of the top. Behind the spot where the outer panels had been, a series of iris-type linkages expanded out and down. When the tabletop itself reached a level position, the lower linkages kept going slowly downward until they contacted the floor, at which point everything stopped.

Siobhan took a step toward it and pointed to a small control panel. "What be this?"

"That controls the lights in the table."

She just looked at him.

"See, the table's backlit." He reached over and flipped the lowest switch. A soft white glow immediately shone through the frosted glass. "That way, if you have a pattern piece you want to copy, you can just overlay it and trace it out."

"Oh … oh, my." Her voice was rather faint. "But … what be these other things?"

Karl flipped the first switch off, and the one above it on. A grid of bright blue lines appeared. "This dial controls the grid spacing," he commented, giving it a spin. Siobhan watched as the grid seemed to expand toward her, and then stop and recede again. "It's for when you want to cut a straight line, but don't have the time to mark it on the fabric, or you're using a fabric that doesn't take a good line, or whatever." He pointed to the dial. "It's marked in centimeter increments, if you need to have exact spacing for something. See, if I spin the dial around to '15'," which he did, "you get fifteen-centimeter squares."

She ran her paw across the glassy surface, speechless.

"And this button opens the storage drawer." He pressed a large, white button, and a wide, shallow tray slid out the end of the table. It held a large pair of shears, a medium-length pair, some tiny scissors, some pinking shears, and a rotary cutter. All the tools were gleaming smooth, and the metal portions were covered in a random pattern of smooth rainbow shades. Siobhan picked up the rotary cutter, finding its haft a perfect fit to her paw.

"How does … won't this scratch th' glass?"

"Nope. That isn't glass. It's amorphous sapphire, industrial grade. You can scratch it with diamond, but not much else. And the tools are all tungsten-carbide at their edges, with a hybrid coating of nitride-based ceramics. If you ever do get them dull, I'll be happy to refurbish the edges, but I seriously doubt that'll be a problem."

"Karl … I dinna know whit t' say …" She turned and rushed into him with a fierce hug.

He let her get past the flash of emotion and said, "There's one more box under there."

She looked up and said, with a sniff, "If ye've got sommat t' top this, I'll be nae good t' anyfur th' rest o' th' night."

"Don't worry. This is for everyone." He reached down and got the package and passed it to her. Due to its weight, she sat down and placed it on her lap. Wiping an eye and sniffling a couple more times, she tore off the wrapping. The box revealed was black and shrink-wrapped in clear plastic. Across the top were the words 'Hans Burie'. She gave him a questioning look.

"You said everyone in your family was a confirmed chocoholic, so I figured this wouldn't go amiss."

All the boys crowded around as she opened the box. There before them was a lavish selection of the finest dark chocolate truffles that Antwerp could boast. Paws reached to grab, but Siobhan was quick to smack them. "Ye'll wait ye turns and behave y'silves!" Then she picked out two for each of her sons, and two for herself. There followed a couple of minutes of silence punctuated by the occasional low 'oooh' and 'aahhh'.

Karl was all grins. "Belgium is widely considered the dark chocolate capitol of the world, and Antwerp has the best chocolatiers. Hans Burie is known, among those of us who are informed about such things, to be the best one in Antwerp. So that's where I sent to get this."

Sean came over and solemnly shook his paw. "Mister Karl, I'll be puttin' yer name in fer sainthood." He looked over at his mother, who was leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, slowly working her mouth back and forth to extract the last nuance of cocoa from her truffle. "Is it really just _two_ now, Mum?"

She opened her eyes and gave him a slightly dreamy look. "Well … there do seem t' be three layers of 'em. So, mebbe one more wouldn' hurt."

##


	37. Chapter 7 Gathering Part C

_**Chapter Seven**__** – Gathering**__** – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Saturday 24 December 2016, 8:35pm **_

Karl's ATV halted in front of the porte cochere and sighed down to its resting height. He got out and looked at the Inn with a frown. No lights on, anywhere. It was just past eight thirty, and he knew Wendy was something of a night owl. Her van stood in its usual place, so she hadn't gone anywhere. There was evidence of a car having parked in front of the house at some time in the past day or so. It was an upper-end model, if the tire tread marks were any indication. He trotted up to the door and listened: no radio, no voice. The door turned out to be unlocked, so he went on in.

He stood in the South Hall for several seconds, listening hard. He sniffed the air, but caught no whiff of the alcohol that had permeated the place upon his previous arrival. He zipped over to the Main Hall, then upstairs to Wendy's room, then back downstairs to the library, the dining rooms, and the kitchen.

Ah-hah! The rear porch light was on. Wendy's parka was missing from the rack beside the door. He went out onto the porch and aAAugmented his senses to the max.

Wendy's trail was faint, but he had no trouble following it down toward the creek. He caught sight of her, sitting in the one good wrought-iron bench and watching the water run by, and heaved a sigh of relief.

He realized that she probably wouldn't hear him walking up over the noise of the stream, so he edged around to her left and came up along the bank, into her peripheral vision. Nevertheless, he was almost on top of her before she noticed him. She gave a start and jerked away, but then recognized him through the gloom. Her eyes went wide, she rocketed up off the bench, and all but leaped into his arms.

It wasn't exactly the greeting he'd anticipated, but it would certainly do for the time being. He held her close, noting immediately that she was shivering, and badly. Adjusting his vision to infrared, he saw also that her exposed areas were alarmingly cold. "Wendy, you have to remember that Winter takes no prisoners. What are you doing out here?"

She just held onto him, shaking, not saying anything.

"I'll carry you back to the house, okay?"

She nodded silently, her trembling paws gripping him tighter. Karl rearranged her to a more comfortable position and trotted quickly back to the Inn. Once inside, he got her out of her parka, found a blanket and bundled the two of them together in it on the long sofa in the library. She settled in snugly against his chest, wrapping a fist around a clump of his long fur. He kept her there for the better part of half an hour, massaging her footpads and stroking her headfur until she warmed up and stopped shivering.

She was the first to speak. "What made you come and find me?"

He glanced down at the top of her head. She hadn't looked up. "Concern. Curiosity. You wouldn't answer your phone, and I called three different times. How long have you been outside?"

"I … don't really know. What time is it?"

"Well past nine."

"Oh. … Really? Huh." She flexed one leg and wiggled her foot around. "Wow. I didn't realize."

"Must have had a lot on your mind."

"Yeah." She did look up then, and met his gaze. "Lot on my mind."

"If you need to talk, I'm listening."

She leaned her head back against his chest, silent for a minute or so. Then she asked, "Karl, what makes a person a good person?"

That wasn't high on his list of things he thought she might say. "Uh … that, um, would depend on how you … what your definition of 'good' is."

"Okay. Leaving out all the religious crap about God telling us what 'good' is, what makes someone worthwhile?"

"Huh. Gee, Wendy, why don't you give me a _hard_ question for a change?"

"I don't need philosophy. I just want your opinion. In day-to-day interactions, what is it that makes some furs the 'good guys' and some not?"

"Fair enough." He thought about it for a few moments, and then said, "I guess … I guess selflessness would top the list. Whether you're talking social evolution or Mazlow's hierarchy or the worldview underpinnings of all of the major faiths, everybody wants to feel special to someone. Making someone else feel special – typically by putting that fur's needs ahead of your own – is what gives someone worth in society. That's also a reasonable working definition of love." He gave her a smile. "Of course, my personal views are clouded by all that 'religious crap' as you so colorfully put it. I think each of us has worth because God made each of us in His image and He loves each of us."

"Do you _actually_ think _God_ loves _me_?" The bitterness in that question was manifest.

He didn't hesitate in his reply. "I do."

"Then I wish He'd act like it."

"Hm. Had a bad day?"

"Had a bad life."

"All of it?"

"No. Not all of it. But enough to outweigh the good stuff. It seems like all I can remember any more are the sad parts."

"You'll get me choked up, talking like that."

She snorted. "As if." Catching his eye again, she asked, "Do _you_ think I'm a bad person?"

"What a question!" His shocked expression was most real.

"Answer it then."

"No. Of course not."

"Why not?"

_**For a thousand reasons**,_ his mind screamed, **_for __ten__ thousand!_** "You are honest to a fault, you are genuine, you don't have hidden agendas, you truly want to help other furs, you want to leave this world a better place than you found it, you have a classically whimsical sense of humor, you combine a scintillating wit with a love of language, you are always looking for ways to improve yourself, you enjoy making others happy with your cooking, you …"

She laid a finger across the end of his muzzle. "And you'll give me the big head, talking like that." As she drew her paw back down, he noted her slight blush. "I'm not … really like that, you know. Not really."

"Yes, you are. _That_ is the face the world sees."

That pretty mouth twisted in anger. "Then why does the world keep kicking my ass?"

"Um. That, I can't say. But then I'm a scientist/engineer type. I'm a problem-solver. If you give me some specifics, I can try to fix the problem."

"Life is more complicated than that, Karl. There are some things – a lot of things – that can't be 'fixed'. They just have to be borne."

"That's pretty bleak. And not entirely true. Relationships are complex, yes, but …"

"What makes you think I'm talking about a relationship?"

"Uh … Okay, if not a relationship, then what?"

She didn't say anything in response, simply ran a fingertip down the fur of his forearm a few times.

"It is a relationship, though, isn't it?"

"… Not just one."

"I see."

"No, I don't think you do." She closed her eyes and snuggled into the crook of his arm. "You know, I bet you'd be a great lover."

"_What?_"

"Oh, you heard me. And don't pretend you don't like hearing it, or that it hasn't crossed your mind what it would be like if we did something about it."

"Ah … and, uh, h-how did we happen upon this particular bend in the road?"

She sat up then, put one paw behind his head, and kissed him, thoroughly and deeply. His response was immediate and wholly involuntary. She broke the kiss, shifted on his lap, and giggled. "Wow. That's a nice compliment."

"Wendy, please, I can't …"

"Coulda fooled me."

"That is _not_ what I …"

"Armed and dangerous. Woot-woot!"

"Will you just stop and listen for a …"

"Come on, Karl. Make love with me."

He stood then, and held her out at arm's length. "Wendy, if you press the issue, I just might. And I would regret it. Believe me, we'd _both_ regret it."

"Yeah," she sighed. "You're probably right about the regretting part. Seems like I've ended up regretting every relationship I've ever been in." She glanced down at her dangling feet. "Would you put me down, please?"

He did so. "Wendy … what are you trying to do to me?"

"I'm not 'trying' anything. I'm just being me. That 'scintillating, genuine' person you were telling me about a few minutes ago. Remember?"

"Actually, I think this is a good example of that _wit_ I mentioned. You're playing with me."

"Yeah. I am. Sucks, don't it?"

He gave her a narrow look. "What are you really up to?"

"I'm just demonstrating a point, Mr. Luscus. Sometimes things are out of your control. Sometimes they can't be fixed. And I find myself in that position a hell of a lot of the time." She leaned toward him a fraction for emphasis. "I don't much like it."

Karl, still unsure of what she was up to, didn't say anything.

She reached down, got the blanket off the sofa, and gathered it into one arm. "Take this situation, for example. I would very much like for you to make love to me tonight. You, for what you consider sound reasons, will not. So we would seem to be at an impasse. But the relationship can't be 'fixed', because it isn't really 'broken'. We just have different needs and different ways of looking at those needs."

"You're right about one thing: the relationship isn't broken. You just want a different relationship from the one we currently have."

"Yes, I suppose I do," she answered, agreeably. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"Wanting a deeper relationship is fine. But there are several aspects of it that have to be aligned before …"

"What if I told you I didn't want a _deeper_ relationship? What if I just want a steady supply of good sex?"

He stared at her a moment before saying, "In the first place, you could purchase a steady supply of sex for a pittance. And in the second place, I don't believe for an _instant_ that's what you really want."

"Oh, don't you?"

"Wendy, it's pretty obvious that someone – probably several someone's – hurt you deeply. I'm very sorry for that, and I wish I could help. But I'm not able to help you in the way you _seem_ to desire. Not as things stand now."

"That's what I thought." She stuck out her paw, and he took it hesitantly. "Thank you for pulling me in out of the cold, Karl. I probably would have stayed out there until hypothermia did me in. And thanks for listening, for getting me out of my head, even if there isn't anything you can do for me. I appreciate the sounding board. It's really kinda funny, how much less reasonable a position sounds when you talk about it out loud."

"Uh … you're welcome?"

"De nada. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll turn in. Today has been very taxing, for reasons I'd rather not go into right now, and I hear my bed calling."

" … Okay. If you're sure. I mean, that isn't really what I came out here for."

"And what _did_ you come out for?"

A wry grin bloomed on his muzzle. "I had intended to invite you to the Christmas service in the morning."

She gave him a long, level look, shook her head a couple of times, and said, "Good night, Karl. Lock up when you leave, 'k?" And she walked quickly out of the room.

##


	38. Chapter 7 Gathering Part D

_**Chapter Seven**__** – Gathering**__** – Part D**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**At daemon, homini quum struit aliquid malum,**  
**Pervertit illi primitus mentem suam. **

**_(But the devil, when he purports any evil against man,  
_ _first perverts his mind__.)_ **  
**– _Euripides_**

##

_** Monday 26 December 2016, 1:15pm **_

Robert Todd opened the door to the staff room, unwound the scarf from around his neck and hung it, along with his hat and overcoat, on the large wall-rack provided for that purpose before shuffling over to the wide table that dominated the center of the floor. He put a discreet fist over his muzzle to cover a couple of hot burps and took a deep breath before fumbling in his pocket for an antacid tablet. _I gotta lay off the burritos at lunch. Don't do me or anyfur else any good._ He chewed the tablet and swallowed, thought about it for a second or so, and popped another one. If the past three weeks had been any indication, the afternoon would likely prove long and grueling.

One of his deputies, a grizzled old brindle cat who went by the name of Drifter, looked up from the paperwork on his desk and asked, "Hey, Cap, you gonna pick up that new guy today? Or do you want one of us to do it?"

"None of the above. He's being dropped off …" He squinted up at the ancient clock on the wall above Drifter's desk. " … in about fifteen minutes, unless Michelle loses track of the time."

A female voice spoke up from the door behind him. "Well, I like that! You just can't do some furs a favor."

Robert spun quickly, his muzzle fur fluffing out in a blush. "Oh, uh, hey! Michelle. Um, thanks for, uh, I mean, I, um, that is, I appreciate your …"

"Skip it." She waved off his stuttering response with a casual paw and sauntered into the room, a rather short and nondescript black-and-tan hound in tow. She, on the other paw, was anything _but_ nondescript. Her mother was a lemur, her father an ocelot, and the combination had achieved a measure of nirvana in her. With her huge, bright golden eyes set above that delicate, aquiline muzzle; long, lightly-tufted ears; uniquely beautiful and symmetric fur pattern; and that long, _long_, prehensile tail … well, it would be fair to say that she fairly _defined_ 'exotic'. And, at a willowy hundred and seventy centimeters, her fifty-five kilos were distributed in such a way as to cause the occasional traffic mishap on the streets she frequented. The fact that her natural stride brought on a testosterone rush in every straight male she passed didn't help much either.

Robert swallowed his pride, smoothed down his muzzle, and offered a lopsided grin. "Sorry. I should know better." He looked past her – with some effort – to the young fellow behind her. "You'd be Lieutenant Phillips, then?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Um … thanks, but around here I'm just 'Cap'. 'Sir' makes me feel old."

Michelle gave him a poke in the ribs. "But you _are_ old."

"That don't mean I have to act like it."

She snickered, "No worries there," and turned back to the door. Every eye in the room tracked her progress until the tip of her tail vanished around the corner. Lieutenant Amos Phillips glanced over at Robert and asked, "_She's_ an FIA _agent_?"

"Yep."

"God bless America!"

"Oh, He has, son, He has. If you ever stop to wonder what it is you come to work for, what it is you're fightin' for every day, just drop by her office for a reminder."

"I guess she's … what? An under-cover op?"

"Nope. She's too, um, distinctive for that."

"Oh. Right. So, what _does_ she do?"

"Martial arts instructor."

"Oh, yeah?" He looked impressed. "How about that!"

"Yeah. Don't get on her bad side. She could have you disassembled and the parts bagged and catalogued before you knew you'd been hit."

The Lieutenant shook his shoulders loose and turned to the big table. "Well, that's all very, _very_ interesting, but it ain't catching our killer."

"Right you are. Say, you want some coffee before we get started?"

"Nah, thanks anyway. I'm trying to quit. Doc says I'm hyper enough without it. My girlfriend says that, too."

Robert grinned. "Better not let _her_ see Michelle."

Amos chuckled. "Heard that."

"Okay, then, here's what we've got so far." He pushed a stack of manila folders over to the other fur. "Let's see what a bona-fide profiler makes out of this mess."

Amos picked up the one on top and flipped it open. "David Eli Brune and Paul James Felix. They were the first ones, chronologically?"

"Right. First ones to die, fourth to be found. They were a long ways out. If one of 'em hadn't had his PA there in the tent, they might _still_ be out there."

Amos paged very quickly through the file, closed it, and placed it on the table before opening the next. "Derek Mastiff. Yeah, that's a weird one, all right. The guy's a professional wrestler, two-fifteen tall, strong as two mules … and he gets his arms pulled off like the wings off a fly.

Robert frowned and looked at the folder. "Huh. It's out of order. He was the _fifth_ one to die." He looked at the next few files and re-ordered them. "That's better."

"Right. Willa Burroughs. Wildlife biologist." He pulled her photo out of its clip and held it up. "_**Very**_ photogenic. Second one to die, but the most recent one found. Not much left of her, ID'd by DNA records. And … lemme see. Yeah. She's the only one we know of who was attacked in a building."

"Yeah, that's right."

He came across a note and looked up at the old fox with interest. "And we've got some as-yet-unidentified blood?"

"Right again. Lab boys are checking it out right now."

"Good. Okay, then, this Ms. Yvonne Nibbler was number three?"

"Yeah. They originally thought she'd gotten messed up in a piece of farm equipment, but there was too much of her missing by the time they assembled what was left."

"Ugh."

"It don't get no better, kid."

"That's what they said. Looks like they weren't fooling." He scanned the rest of the info in Ms. Nibbler's file, closed it, and flipped open the next one. "Kline Forrester, age seventeen …"

Robert interrupted, "Are you reading _everything_ in those files?"

Amos nodded. "Speed reader with full comprehension. Natural gift."

"Bet that comes in handy."

"Yep." He looked back at the folder in his paw. "Let's see … played basketball … girlfriend … two younger sisters … and our killer got him while he was fly-fishing." His brows drew together thoughtfully.

"What?"

"Eh. Not sure. Not yet." He looked through the rest of that folder, dropped it, and picked up the next one. He repeated that sequence, silently, until he'd finished reading the remaining seven. Then he pulled one of the two chairs with arms over to the table and plopped down in it.

"Anything pop out at you?"

Amos shook his head slowly. "Not yet." He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, his mouth moving slightly in time with the images flashing through his mind. He had a knack, this young fellow did, for finding the hidden connections in seemingly unrelated cases. He could get inside the head of a criminal, and had on three occasions been so successful in gauging the identity of a killer's next victim that the police had been able to nab him almost in the act.

This string of killings, however, didn't leave anyone with the impression that they were unrelated. Every victim had died violently; every one had been dispatched without the killer having to resort to a weapon; every one had been at least partially consumed; and when plotted on a map in chronological order, the murders left a dotted line of red that traveled just a few degrees south of due east and didn't deviate from the line more than a few dozen miles either way. Amos was on loan to Todd's FIA-Columbus team from the Dallas office of the Department of Homeland Security where he'd made something of a name for himself.

Captain Todd had time to go through his email, finish his first cup of coffee and get well-started on another before Amos opened his eyes. The canine looked around until his gaze came to rest on the large map on the wall. With an agitated expression, he got up and went over to stand in front of it.

"Got something, Phillips?"

"Not yet."

"You use that expression a lot."

"Okay, then, no. Or … well, yes, in a kind of backwards way."

"What's that mean? There's no pattern to what he's doing?"

"No, see, it's almost like the lack of a pattern _**is**_ the pattern." He ticked off the victims on his fingers. "We've got a puma, a bear, a rabbit, a mouse, a raccoon, a mastiff-bear hybrid, a fox-tarsier hybrid, a weasel, a cat, and two martens. Seven males, four females. Ages across the board, occupations so … so varied it's almost as if someone researched them. I mean, look. Accountant. Farmer. Engineer. Pro wrestler. Biologist. Unemployed." He threw up his paws. "There's nothing linking the victims. No family connections, no professional affiliations, no hobbies. As far as can be determined, none of them ever met any of the others. Five of them weren't even in their home states when they died!"

"Yeah. We know all that. The only piece of information that has any kind of predictability is that his next victim or victims will be within about forty miles of Curran, Michigan, and that covers a _**lot**_ of ground. 'at's why we brought you on board."

"Yyyyyeah." He gave a frustrated shrug. "Whatever else our guy is up to, he certainly has a destination in mind. I'll give him that." He pointed to a long blank stretch between two of the murder sites. "I'll bet you one more, too. I'll bet you another victim turns up in western Minnesota."

"Well, we'd wondered about that. Kinda broke his pattern."

Amos checked the timeline, nodding to himself. "Maybe he got a homeless guy, or some old hermit-type, or some poor sucker from out of the country with no one nearby to check up on him." He gave the fox a sideways glance. "I suppose you _**have**_ checked out any unusual disappearances in that region?"

Robert did his best not to take offense. "Yes. We have. There weren't any."

"Right! Right. Meant no harm. Can't be too careful." He turned back to the map, rocking back and forth on his toes as he studied it. He saw that the FIA team had calculated the mean straight path along the murder sites, and further that none of the sites was more than twenty-nine miles off of that line. "He's headed straight for something, though, that's for sure." His finger traced the line extending from the last murder east, all the way to the Atlantic. A quick calculation pulled a sigh out of him. "He's done in eleven that we know of, and I'd be willing to bet at least one that we don't. Most of his path has been through some pretty rough country until lately, and where it isn't, it's not in areas where there are a lot of people." He tapped the map again. "Take this last one, see. Michigan's got a pretty high overall population density … except where he came across that young marten couple. I'd give a lot to know how he got over Lake Michigan." He turned back to Cap. "No reports of violence in the merchant marine?"

"Nope."

"Hmph."

"So, what we do know is that his next kill will be in or around the Huron National Forest. Just like you said, not too many people there, just a few small towns. Pretty dead this time of year, you'll pardon the expression. Anyhow, we put out the word five days ago that our suspected perp will be in that area. We advised people to travel in groups, and to go packing if they got it."

Amos frowned. "You really think that part was wise? An armed and jittery population is just begging for an accident."

"Eh. They're mostly country folk in that area. Most of 'em grew up knowing their way around a rifle or a shotgun, and lots of 'em carry all the time. Y'know, Michigan has the third highest C-C ratio in the country."

"And one of the highest murder rates."

"Yeah, sure, if you're talking about Detroit. But you'll also notice that they make it damned hard to own a pawgun, legally, in the city, and _nobody_ but the LEO's can carry. Take out the stats for Detroit, Flint, Lansing, and Grand Rapids, and it's a whole different picture. Just look at the northern half of the state, and you'll see what I mean."

"You sure about that?"

"Yep."

"You seem to be up on your statistics."

"Might say it's a hot button issue with me."

Amos shrugged. "Whatever. It's your show."

"Eh. Don't mean to be territorial or anything. That's just the way it is."

"Okay." He looked back at the map. "So. Five days ago. And it's been quiet since then."

"Yeah. Don't expect that to last, though. I'd bet you a chunk of change we'll hear something in the next three days, tops."

####

_** 3:40pm **_

Drifter said, "Hey, Cap?"

"Yeah?"

"Lab just called. Say they got the finals on that un-ID'd blood."

"That's good to know. When will we …"

"He says it ought to be coming up on your system any second."

"Ah … right. There it is." He scanned down the data sheet. "Huh. Yeah, looks like our perp is male, all right."

"No surprise there," said Amos, as he sat down in the worn seat beside Cap's desk. "There was maybe a five percent chance of his _not_ being male." He peered over at the screen. "What species is he?"

"Wolf. And at least middle-aged."

"Huh? How can they tell that?"

"Elevated PSA levels."

Amos just blinked at him, a nonplussed expression on his face.

"You're probably too young to worry about that sort of thing yet, but I get mine checked twice a year."

"You planning to enlighten me?"

"It's a measure of prostate health. A high level means you're developing prostate cancer."

"No kidding? Huh. Cool."

"Cool? What's cool about prostate cancer?"

"No, I mean it's cool they can give us some age info like that."

Robert read the rest of the document and pointed to the screen. "They say he's unhinged, too. Three different brain hormone levels are off the charts."

"I should think. _**We**_ knew he was psycho without their having to say so."

"Nice to have confirmation, though." He turned to Drifter and caught his eye. "You need to add that to the bulletin."

Drifter, who was typing steadily, made himself a note. "Right. He ain't got both oars in the water. Got it."

"Can you get all that into two hundred words and get it out in the next hour?"

"How's ten minutes sound?"

"Works for me."

##

_** 5:20pm **_

A couple of klicks east of the town of Rust, Michigan (yes, there really _**is**_ a town of Rust, Michigan) one will come across an irregular body of water known as Fletcher Pond. Really, at something like eighteen square kilometers, it's a bit too big to go by the moniker 'pond'. Some of the locals refer to it as Fletcher's Floodings, giving a nod to the fact that it had been created back in 1932 when the dam across the Thunder Bay River inundated a few thousand hectares of what had been relatively useless swamp. Possibly the furs around there felt that it was too shallow to deserve being called a lake.

In any case, it is an angler's paradise, no matter the season. Little ice-fishing huts dotted the frozen surface and, though it was getting harder to see by the minute, wisps of smoke could still be detected rising from many of them. It was among those that the Game Wardens were making their rounds, trying not to miss any in the twenty minutes or so of light they had left.

Officer George Cranfur smacked his mittened paws together, trying to encourage his circulation to get with the program, as he walked up beside his partner. "Yo, Jack, how many more?"

"You get everyfur in the northwest spur?"

"Everyone west of Tennis Road." He shrugged and added, "All of 'em I could see."

"And I got all of 'em in the south section."

"Get any arguments?"

"One or two. Nothin' serious. You?"

"Just Derek. Still two shy of the limit, and wouldn't leave. Stubborn old fool."

"He is that." Keeping his back to the wind, he looked to the northeast at the flat expanse of ice stretching away to the dam. Sergeant Jackson Trotter was an eight-year veteran of the FWS, a canine of no mean skill, and no stranger to either the cold weather or the legendary persistence of the ice-angler. He checked the weather meter dangling from his left wrist: minus twenty-three, with a wind-chill of minus thirty-seven. "Damn. It's dropped six degrees in the last twenty minutes. 'sposed to get down around thirty-five below, ambient, and with that wind …" He shook his head and glanced over at George. "All I know is, they better be inside _somewhere_ by then."

"I guess that means that wacko they told us about will have to go to ground somewhere, too, huh?"

"I don't see how he could do otherwise." Jack hunched himself against the wind. "Let's get goin'. Not much light left."

The two furs hurried over to where they'd parked their snow-cats and quick-timed it through the remaining huts, Jack taking the north side and George the south.

George's S.O.P. was to knock on the hut's door, identify himself, and ask permission to enter. If there was obvious reluctance on the part of the one doing the fishing, George would know something wasn't kosher. Usually it was simply that the angler had caught more than the limit, but this evening the FWS wasn't being very rigid about that. They just wanted everyone home and safe before the weather turned too ugly, and George was straight-up about that with everyone he talked to.

About half-way along his route, though, he ran into a hut where he got no answer at all to his knock and hail. He frowned, backed away, and looked up at the narrow, thin-gauge pipe chimney: yep, there was smoke. He stepped up and knocked again. Maybe the occupant was sleeping. That was ill-advised in this weather, but not unheard-of. This time he thought he heard a rustling noise, a sort of scraping coming from the hut. He banged on the door a third time, and asked if anyone needed assistance. That's when he noticed the smell. Frowning, he tried to identify it, but came up blank, though it was bad enough to make his eyes water.

The low growl he heard in response to his last knock set his hackles erect. He took several quick steps back, yanked his mitten off with his teeth, and drew his service pistol. He didn't have time to say anything else before the door was blasted from its hinges and a nightmare of wild black hair and glaring red eyes came at him.

To his credit, George didn't flinch or cry out. He simply kept depressing the trigger as fast as his finger could squeeze. He succeeded in emptying the magazine, and eight of the slugs found their target. The creature or thing or wacko or whatever one might call it was spun around, knocked back, and brought to down by that storm of lead … but it didn't stop moving until the Game Warden managed to put his last two through the center of its chest. George backed off a little farther, ejected his spent magazine and loaded a fresh one, and _then_ answered his buzzing communicator.

"_George_, what the _hell_ is going on over there?"

George could hear the sound of Jack's snow-cat over the radio, and a few seconds later in stereo as Jack sped over the ice toward him. "Jack … I think I got him."

"Got him? You mean the killer?"

"I … I think so." He hadn't taken his eyes off the blood-soaked mess on the ice in front of him. The red fluid froze practically as soon as it touched the ice, so George couldn't really gage the flow. "Came at me like something feral. You wouldn't believe those eyes. But I got him."

"He's down? You sure?"

"Oh, yeah." George's adrenaline rush was beginning to taper off, and he found that his fingers were trembling. "I put half a pound of lead in him. He's dead, alright."

Jack's vehicle roared up to within a couple of meters of his partner, and he took in the scene for several seconds. Then he looked quizzically over at George and said, "That son-of-a-bitch is naked!"

"Yeah. Caught that." He walked over to Jack's snow-cat and sat down beside the older fur. "Damn. Never had to kill anyfur before. Hell, I never _shot_ anyfur before!"

"And I'm sorry you had to. But I'm bettin' he woulda done for ya otherwise." Jack walked over and squatted beside the fallen creature. "Big thing. Skin and bones, though." He stood up and backed away quickly. "Holy shit!"

"What is it?"

"That smell!" Jack was looking distinctly queasy. "That'll take your breath, and no mistake!"

"Yeah. I smelled it when he was still in the hut. Makes you wonder what he's been wallowing around in." They heard a 'halloo' from the fur in the next hut but two. The rising wind had carried the sound eastward, and he'd heard the gunfire. George stood again and said, "I'll run over there and let him know what happened. Be back in a minute."

"You okay to drive? Sure you don't want me to go?"

"Nah. I'll be all right. Besides, I can see better in low light than you can."

"Yeah, yeah. Rub in that feline heritage."

"Well, I can. Not rubbing in anything. No brag, just fact."

"Okay, suit y'self." He frowned and asked, "Listen, speaking of vision, did you look in the hut?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I don't think he built it himself. Do you?"

George got a queasy look of his own. "Oh, hell. You don't think …"

"Yeah, I do. But you go on. I'll check on it."

" … You sure?"

"Yeah. Go on."

So George did, gunning his snow-cat away toward the other fur. Jack turned, and with a very unsettled feeling in his gut he walked over to the hut.

There was no light inside. He pulled out his flash and shone it in the doorway. Immediately he noticed blood spatters on the far wall, and his last shreds of hopefulness died away. With a quiet sigh he went on inside, steeling himself for whatever carnage his imagination thought might lie within.

It was worse than that.

He had to lean against the wall for a minute and hold himself hard to keep from throwing up. As a young fur he'd once made a field trip to a slaughterhouse, as part of a 4-H project, which experience had put him off meat for two months. But that was _nothing_ compared with this.

He turned his eyes away from the worst of it, pulled his com unit out, and got in touch with the base. He was still explaining what had happened to the incredulous fur on monitor duty when George zoomed back up. The cat ran into the hut, his tail twitching. He looked around briefly and then looked at Jack. "What'd you do with him?"

"What'd I do with who?"

"The wacko!"

Jack got a very unpleasant chill and they both ran back outside. Jack drew his pistol and George quickly followed suit.

The untidy pile of black fur that had been lying in front of the hut was gone.

George stepped over to where he'd last seen the big wolf and studied the ice, then followed the slight trail of blood east for a few dozen meters until he got to the shore. "Jack …"

His partner came over. "Yeah?"

"Jack, I killed him. There is no way _anyfur_ could have taken that much damage and lived. I _know_ I killed him."

"Maybe he had an accomplice?"

"I … don't know. Look here, at the snow."

"Can't see much." The canine got out his flash and shone it on the ground. Then he whispered, very softly, "Damn."

George stood and scanned their surroundings. The land was relatively flat, but the forest began ten or fifteen meters away, and sight was quickly lost among the dense conifers. "You call this in?"

"Uh-huh. They got two units on the way."

"Jack, I put five or six in his torso. Two in or right close to the heart. He can _**not**_ be walking!"

Jack pointed and said, "Tell that to those footprints, then." He turned and made his way back to the hut and their parked snow-cats. George took a last look at the trail of bloody marks that led unsteadily east into the forest, and hurried to join his partner. They waited by the hut, warming themselves occasionally, but not staying inside any longer than was necessary. Neither one put away his pistol until backup arrived.

##

**Here Ends Chapter Seven**

**This concludes Book Five of the Gone Wylde Chronicles.**

**The story continues in Book Six: Winter's Depths.**

**Kindly take a minute to leave a review of Our Story Thus Far.**

**Thank you.**


End file.
